A Porthos Romance
by sfrost
Summary: With his musketeer friends happily paired up, Porthos is longing for something more in his life. A year after Belle-Isle, a new adventure awaits the musketeers. Fraught with conspiracies, extraordinary inventions and eccentric inventors, the musketeers are thrust into the unconventional life and bizarre world of the unruly Comtesse de Dandurand.
1. Prologue: One for All, All for One

_About the fanart cover: Many thanks to the very talented artist, __夏虫 aka "SummerBug", who was very kind to give me permission to use her beautiful art as the cover of the story. I invite you to check out her work on Pixiv /en/users/34528959_

**_Author's Note:_**

The events of this story occur AFTER the events of another fanfic story written in French by Yael92 called "Faux-Semblant", in which the musketeers finally discover the real identity of Aramis while on a mission.  
Link: s/13363699/1/Faux-semblants

Thank you for stopping by and I hope you will enjoy this!

**Chapter 1 **

The tavern was full and the mood celebratory. The musketeers were sitting at their usual table, lined with four glasses of frothy liquid and several empty glasses on the sides, marking the passage of time in good humour.

Yet despite the never-ending supply of food and beverage that made its way to their table, Porthos was not in the best of spirits. He stole a glance over his drink at Athos and Aramis, who seemed to have locked eyes with one another, exchanging a passionate gaze with wry smiles. Despite their careful discretion of their relationship, they seemed in too good of a humour tonight to be subtle with their interactions. No doubt they plan on taking this disposition to bed with them this evening, Porthos thought to himself.

D'Artagnan, standing by the table, his back turned to his comrades, was being congratulated and patted on the back by the other musketeers. He had proposed to Constance earlier in the week and she had accepted.

It had been a year and a half since the events at Belle-Isle and about a year since Porthos and Athos learned the truth about Aramis. Since then, the devoted friendship between his closest friends evolved into a passionate and unquenchable love affair. At first, Porthos had trouble accepting it. But after seeing how happy it made his friends, he gradually warmed up to it. They were his best friends, after all, and their happiness was his happiness as well. The changes brought about by this new dynamic were subtle: for example, when Athos and Aramis shared a room in an auberge during a mission, it was inevitable to deduce what they would occupy themselves with at night. During battles, Athos now seemed more concerned and attentive about the safety of Aramis than his other companions and vice versa. Although their attentiveness to each other in dangerous situations was not to the point of completely ignoring their other comrades, it was still obvious enough for Porthos and D'Artagnan to notice. And so, Porthos found himself spending more time with D'Artagnan during missions and any free time they were accorded from their Captain.

The company of d'Artagnan was always pleasant, filled with good humour and funny situations. He was also a talented swordsman and creative on the battle field, which made him an ideal comrade-in-arms for the adventure-loving Porthos. The only thing the company of d'Artagnan lacked was a mutual appreciation of women and the pleasures of the flesh. For that, Porthos had to content himself with the company of other musketeers.

The news of d'Artagnan's engagement to Constance was only a matter of time. The musketeers often made jokes and hints to d'Artagnan that Constance is becoming impatient and that if he does not propose soon, she might just leave him for another man. Then ruder jokes would follow as to whom that man might be, to a point that someone once suggested Rochefort, which merited d'Artagnan's fist in that musketeer's face.

But in this current jovial atmosphere, instead of relishing his friend's happiness and celebrating, there seemed to be a dark cloud hanging over Porthos' head. What was this feeling anyway? Jealousy? Porthos never wanted love or marriage. He would never think of keeping a wife nor of ever leaving his musketeer life. But there was something he couldn't help but envy in the way Athos looked at Aramis or touched her or ran to her side after a skirmish to make sure she was well. Or something in the way Aramis tended to Athos if he was injured, or cautioned him on drinking too much or playfully teased him. There was a private intimacy between his two friends – a private space that he was not allowed to be admitted to. And it now seemed that a similar affliction will be claiming their other friend, thus leaving Porthos all by himself.

Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back to his body by a sharp pain radiating through his left side. Startled, he turned his head to see that he had just received a jab in his side from the musketeer sitting beside him.

"Porthos!" Her blue eyes, luminous and joyous of late, having lost their habitual sadness that they carried all those years he'd known her, were looking up at him with concern. This whole time, he had been twirling his glass in between his fingers on the table, lost in his reverie, without realizing that his friend was calling out to him. He chugged a generous amount, and turned to her with a big smile, as he rubbed at his side. For a petite stature and delicate features, she always surprised him with her strength and the steel-like feel of her punches and throws.

"What are you doing?" questioned a bewildered Aramis, as Porthos got up and straightened himself out.

"I was thinking to get an early night's sleep in preparation for training tomorrow morning," he replied, absent-mindedly, without looking at his friends.

Aramis' eyes widened more. She looked to Athos for some help. He quickly came to her aid, realizing the extreme unusualness of the situation, "Porthos…" Athos began, with a very concerned tone and, speaking slowly, he reminded his comrade that the Capitaine had given them the day off tomorrow in honor of d'Artagnan and Constance's engagement, on orders from the Queen herself.

"Indeed…," Porthos said, slowly, looking up, as if hearing this news for the first time. A loud noise came from a different table. A quarrel? It attracted his comrades' attention long enough to enable him to slip out.

"Port-," Aramis began, turning around and interrupting herself, realizing that he had left. She looked at Athos, who mirrored back her concern and worry. More food had only just arrived at their table and Porthos had left before it came.

They said nothing to each other for a while, stewing in stupor. Aramis decided to break the silence, "Do you know anything that has happened?"

Athos searched his memory. Nothing seemed to come to him. Everything seemed normal; they have had no quarrels. They fought side by side as always, they drank together, ate together, laughed and fought off the Red Guards together. It is true that they have been spending less time together since he and Aramis began their affair, but Porthos always had other pursuits anyway. At the end of an evening, when Athos left with Aramis, he always glanced back to see Porthos comfortably installed with a woman, and sometimes even more than one.

Aramis' thoughts followed the same procession as Athos', except that she suddenly realized that something was deeply amiss. She remembered remarking to herself one time a few weeks ago that Porthos had not been eating as much. In fact, she had joked, rather insensitively, that he had become slightly leaner. The giant did not seem amused at this joke, which took her off guard at the time. What's more, Porthos who normally takes pleasure in giving a solid beating to the Red Guards, seemed distracted during their latest skirmish to the point that she had to come to his aid. She hadn't thought much of it at the time but now it seemed that all these subtle events were amounting to a worrisome realization.

Of course, everything was fine, to her and Athos. They were finally together after many tribulations and misunderstandings. But during their tumultuous affair, they had thought of no one but themselves over the last year. This thought made her flush. She felt overtaken by a sense of shame, accompanied by a heartbreaking sadness and disappointment in herself: she had neglected one of her truest friends. A friend who was always there for her, who comforted her, protected her with his life, who accepted her as she was even after she had lied to him for years. She felt as though she had abandoned him. Not only had she been inadvertently ignoring him, but she had put him down and treated him with complete ingratitude and insensitivity.

Seeing the look in her eye, Athos looked around before he sneaked a squeeze on her wrist and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Do you think we were selfish?" she questioned Athos.

He was taken aback. Selfish? Why, because they wished to be together? But then he understood.

He tried to speak in a low voice, "I didn't think this would bother Porthos. He was fine with it all. Besides, we are discrete most of the time."

How could she explain this to him? Athos was the sharpest and most observant man she had ever met but he sometimes did not fully comprehend the multifaceted nature of people, and especially not when it came to matters of the heart. After all, the fruition of their relationship was fraught with misunderstandings, to say the least.

"It's not about us, Athos. What if Porthos is lonely?"

Athos released her hand and laughed heartily. "Lonely? Porthos has everything he wants in life: women, food, friendship, adventure, a glorious career, honor and freedom. What more could a man want?"

Aramis shot him a dark look, "Freedom and women? And is that what you want, Monsieur Athos?"

He walked straight into that one. Bashful, he lowered his head, "Not in the least, my darling," he whispered, "You know I only ever want _you_ and nothing else in my life. There is nothing that could make me happier than you," he said, with a charming genuine smile. His eyes shimmered with a look of love and tenderness.

She smiled wryly, she won this round. How she loved toying with him!

Seeing her appeased, he continued, "But this is Porthos. He's different. This is what _he _wants."

Still, Aramis wasn't convinved. If Porthos was lonely, or he was upset because of them, she intended to make it right no matter what it took. In a hurry, she excused herself and left. "Aramis, let it be…" Athos called after her, grabbing her wrist. She shook his wrist off, placed her hat on and left. Athos sighed in exasperation. Ah, but he was in too jovial of a mood mood and decided to remain a bit longer at the tavern before joining her later for a night of passion. There was no use talking to her now anyway. She was always in better spirits after a good session of lovemaking, which is what he had planned on anyway.

* * *

Porthos stood on the bridge, looking at his reflection in the Seine, illuminated by a full moon. Even though he left the tavern before hearing any of the words Athos had said, the same thing was going through his mind. He had everything he could want: an appreciation of good food, beautiful women who wanted his company, loyal friends and comrades-in-arms, illustrious adventures, a trembling reputation as a valiant warrior that struck fear into his enemies' hearts and above all, a musketeer's honor.

But where did this sudden feeling of emptiness come from? Or was it really sudden? It had been creeping in gradually over the last few months, he now realized. The adjustment to the relationship of his comrades was not easy but he thought he had adapted rather well. What he didn't count on, however, was what this change in their dynamic had brought to him personally. It made him examine his own life. He had never felt lonely. He always found friends and comrades or company with women. But now he saw a different facet of human relationships and it made him uncomfortable to know that its absence in his life was causing him to feel a sinking sensation within his heart.

He stared at his reflection. His dark curly hair fell to his shoulders. His body was naturally large and muscular, according him an unparalleled strength as a warrior. Appearances aside, he caught a gleam of sadness in his eyes that he had never seen before. A feeling of loss came over him. Was he mourning the loss of a friendship or a lack of something in his life? He hated being plunged in these… _feelings_. It wasn't like him at all. He took a deep breath, through which a waft of familiar perfume penetrated his senses. He felt a warm presence around him and a friendly hand on his shoulder. It was a loving hand, a caring hand. He looked to his side to its owner and was greeted by such tenderness. The blue in her eyes was accentuated by a tearful glisten. Had Athos upset her again? He looked at her, concerned.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," she began, her voice shaking. Turning to her, he put both his hands on her shoulders and then brought his fingers to her cheeks, wiping the tears that she couldn't hold back. He looked at her, perplexed. What was she sorry for?

She broke away from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, sniffling. Ever since the truth came out, she became more comfortable displaying certain vulnerabilities of her feminine side amongst her closest friends, but especially to Porthos. He was her protector, the guardian of her secrets and feelings. She reproached herself on this spectacle, embarrassed and adamant to exercise more control over her emotions.

"I never realized how selfish we were. 'One for all and all for one'…" she trailed off, bitterly, ashamed of herself for neglecting their oath.

He smiled at her, indicating to her that he understood, "It's still the same, Aramis," he said trying to reassure her.

She smiled weakly at him, "But it's not, really… is it?" Her blue eyes had a way of seeing into the souls of those they looked into.

He smiled sadly and turned away, back to the river. He cleared his throat a few times, in an attempt to hold back any tears. He was sad too. The acknowledgement of it made it all too real. They stood in silence for a while, letting the emotions wash over them. Finally, Aramis broke the silence.

"Remember when we had a fake funeral for d'Artagnan?"

Porthos laughed. The conversation moved on from there, taking the habitual turns and detours that were characteristic of two old friends reminiscing. They spoke about battles, laughed to tears and teased each other mercilessly. It felt right and familiar, just like it had always been.

The conversation eventually reached a halt. The silence engulfed them in a new wave of sadness, a mourning of some sorts. As if the trip down memory lane was a tribute to something that had died. But it was also cathartic. They stood facing each other, Aramis kicking a rock off the bridge, her hands in her pockets, Porthos looking out onto the water where the rock had landed.

She then took both his hands with hers and looked him in the eye. Her eyes were flooded with the utmost tenderness that can only be found amongst the most loyal of friends and the most noble and honorable of individuals, "We will never leave you alone, Porthos." This was a promise.

He hated showing his vulnerability. He did not want her to know he was scared, or that he was having these feelings of sadness and emptiness of late. But Aramis had a way of knowing these things without him having to verbalize them. With her, he felt comfortable being vulnerable.

He squeezed her hands, shrugged his shoulder and smiled bashfully. He looked down and in a thick voice, he said, "I know you won't." He took her in his arms and squeezed her towards him.

When they broke apart, she grinned widely, "The King's ball is next week," she elbowed him playfully.

They were on duty during the ball but they were allowed some breaks for dancing or socializing.

"I hear there will be a lot of attractive young ladies this year," she continued, teasing. One detail he would never miss about the male version of Aramis was his prudish nature and resistance to women. But now that Aramis was free to be herself, she was at liberty to point out beautiful women to Porthos, share her comments on their appearance and personalities and even venture a few tips here and there on what is pleasing to women in bed or what would be an appropriate gift for a mistress he was courting.

"Well, then, the ladies can all line up behind the dessert table because I will certainly be a busy man!" he joked.

She burst out laughing and, linking her arm in his, her body naturally leaned into his, she led him back to the tavern, all the while smiling and laughing. If anyone knew how to cheer Porthos up, it was always Aramis. Some things hadn't changed after all.


	2. An Eccentric Woman

**Author's Note:**

Marianne de Dandurand was inspired two women in the BBC's The Musketeers:  
\- Alice Clerbeaux (S1E8: The Challenge)  
\- Samara (S2E3: The Good Traitor)

And also by Claudine, the leading character in Colette's novels, Claudine.

**Chapter 2: An Eccentric Woman**

"Absolutely out of the question!" yelled the old man, in a rage, slamming his palms onto the thick mahogany desk, causing a rattle.

"This is but an attempt to control me," a sharp voice retaliated. His outrage and aggression did not move her one bit.

She was accustomed to this side of him and this was only the latest in a series of much more heated arguments that have been taking place over the past few weeks. They usually ended in screams, tears, both or a frigid icy silence.

He let out a sarcastic laugh. "Control you?" He shook his head, amused at the notion. He began taking off his cufflinks and rolling back his sleeves, a habitual ritual before he pored himself into his work.

It was getting dark, and the sun had just set. The sky was pink, turning purple in places. A few stars were already shining in the East. It was a fine summer evening fit for a brisk walk in the field, but the inhabitants of this chateau seemed to want to be nowhere except enclosed inside its cellar.

However, this was no ordinary cellar.

It was larger than any traditional cellar, spanning almost the entire length of the floor above, with the exception of a small room which was dedicated to housing barrels of wine and storing preserves.

The space was well-lit, with multiple chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and the walls. There were shelves lining the entire wall, behind the desk of the old man, overflowing with leather-bound books. On his desk were several flasks made of glass, some were burnt or impregnated with dust, along with some metallic objects and high stacks of notebooks, disordered papers and empty bottles of ink. He had shoved all the contents of his bureau to the sides to make space for a large piece of parchment which looked to contain the rough sketches of a blueprint of some sorts.

All throughout this enclosure, the walls were lined with tables or equipment for dedicated purposes: metal work, carpentry, chemical compounds, more books and notebooks and a space for discarded items. In the middle of the room was a platform on which stood a nascent structure made of wood and metal, with a label engraved on a golden plaque underneath that spelled "Prototype".

In short, it was an inventor's dream. And the inventor in question had all the funding to graciously support his endeavours.

Taking turns between rolling back his sleeves and glancing at her, he coldly said, "I rather think I spoiled you too much. You're becoming quite unruly."

This infuriated her more. She grunted loudly, stomping her feet.

"You know absolutely nothing of love and certainly nothing of a woman's heart!" she snapped, her voice becoming shrilly. Then, regaining some composure, "Well, if I'm becoming unruly, you're becoming a mean-spirited curmudgeon with every passing day."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"My dear," he began, taking a deep breath, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, "I do not refuse because I wish to control you. Far from it. You know that I have given you everything I could possibly give you. I have given you all the riches, jewellery and beautiful gowns that any woman within miles would envy," he paused, letting it sink in.

But perhaps she was right. What _did_ he know of women and what women wanted anyway? When it came to her happiness, he always felt as though he were in the dark. He thought that giving her all those things would bring her pleasure, appease her, but she barely took to them.

_He had never longed for a family – he had never wanted children nor craved to leave a legacy of heirs behind him. No, his legacy was elsewhere. It was in his creations, in his discoveries. But when that unfortunate accident struck, his life was, as he thought at the time, not changed but barely indented. He had planned on being minimally involved in the child's life: he would engage governesses, ensure that the child was well-fed and well-clothed, allow her a few social opportunities and then provide her a generous dowry so that she can be out and married by the age of 15, leaving him in peace and back to his solitary life once more. In essence, it would be an involvement that could be easily appeased by wealth, not requiring the sacrifice of his precious time or mental energy. _

_Alas, life always had other plans._

Taking another deep breath, he continued, softening his voice, "I even took to your education myself instead of hiring an intolerable governess - not that any person out there would have been able to teach you anything…"

_He had opted to begin her education as soon as she came to live with him, at the age of 5. Against the recommendations of the governess, he commissioned her to begin a difficult curriculum of French, English, Spanish, Italian and Latin in order to keep her and the governess both busy, so as not to have to interact with either of them too much. But by the age of 6, she had mastered all, and was increasingly becoming bored and unchallenged. This boredom seemed to create an ideal space for tantrums and temperamental exhibitions of frustration, causing a lot of trouble with the governesses and thereby for him. He consulted tutors to teach her arithmetic, philosophy, and astronomy, often receiving replies that enraged him. The tutors were scandalized by the notion of teaching a girl these advanced topics and were even offended by the mere request. _

_He began to believe it was almost sinful to waste her potential and talents and so, admitting defeat, he took it upon himself to tend to her education in a way that would be useful to him as well. He began allowing her into his workshop for some time during the day, during which he would teach her basics of astronomy, mathematics, and medicine. He would then send her out to play in the fields with the stable boy to get rid of any excess energy so that her mind was clear for a lesson of philosophy in the evenings. To his surprise, she never complained about any of it. Her tantrums became less frequent and he found himself not simply tolerating the time spent with her, but actually deriving some enjoyment from it._

_As she got older, she began spending more and more time in the workshop of her own accord, conducting her own experiments and discoveries or assisting him with his. It was the only time they had spent together in complete harmony, shrouded by their intellectual commonality and the nature of collaborative spirit shared amongst scientists and inventors. _

She interrupted him, "Yes, I am fully aware and I thank you very much, Uncle, but why would you not wish to grant me just this one thing? It's very simply and not at all unreasonable," she implored.

Ignoring her, he continued with his monologue, "And especially, I have rescinded the title of the estate to YOU, after your parents' passing. Willingly I have done so. Pray, what other relation would do so with an orphaned niece who was left to them as a charge?"

She rolled her eyes - _again with the title_. He himself was in no need of a title. He had bequeathed it to his younger brother after their father died, rejecting the responsibility and allure that it entailed, preferring a solitary life spent in exploration and invention. With his brother's death, the title reverted to him once more and he chose to give it away to the only living relation he had left and, whom he believed, contrary to common tradition, the title should belong to. And so was the title of Comtesse de Dandurand bestowed upon the 18-year old young woman currently imbuing him with her latest tantrum. Her fiery amber eyes glowed orange in the candle-light of the workshop, contrasting her dark auburn hair that fell voluptuously in waves midway to her back.

While the bequeathment of the title sparked some controversy in society, it was soon forgiven and attributed to his eccentric ways. And quickly enough, the new Comtesse was accepted and the noble families in the region began lining up their sons for her hand in marriage.

She groaned and rubbed her temple. These arguments were starting to give her headaches.

"As to why my answer is "no", is a simple matter: I do not care for him one bit. He is not a good man and I am never wrong in my judgement of others," he turned up his nose at her.

She grunted. "But you are evidently wrong in this case, because he is a true gentleman. He … _loves_ me," she pleaded with him.

Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face, as if some spirit whispered something funny into his ear. A small laugh escaped him, "And yet, imagine YOU in white nuptials! What a hilarious irony!"

Her cheeks turned a crimson red. Her eyes, widened with rage, the orange shades interlacing with brown and yellow, mimicking a fire dancing in her eyes. Her palms automatically rolled themselves into fists, her nails digging into the inside of her palms.

A timid chuckle came from the far corner of the room. Her uncle glanced at the young man in the corner, pleased to see that he was of entertainment - _so he wasn't becoming too much of a curmudgeon after all! _

She squinted at her uncle, "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" She said, through clenched teeth, knowing full well what he meant.

"Well, the fact remains that you are the ultimate conquest of all the eligible men for miles around," and with a wry smile, he continued, "and it is hardly a secret that you have done nothing to discourage them."

At that, she let out an indignant gasp. Too shocked to retort, her cheeks reddening more and more, almost becoming the color of her dark auburn hair.

He continued, still in good humor, "But it really is my fault. I allowed you to attend balls unchaperoned and given you all the liberties to display yourself and conduct yourself as you please with the men."

He never prevented her from attending any social events she desired. In fact, he found it refreshing to regain some solitude. Besides, they were still a noble family and their presence in society was a requirement to maintain their wealth and status, without which he would not be able to pursue his passion. He was relieved to leave that aspect of their lives to Marianne.

"Unchaperoned?" she cried, turning around and pointing a finger to the corner of the room, "Gerard is constantly by my side, as per your wonderful instructions, spying on me, following me around, how much more chaperoning could I possibly get?"

"Well, it is evident that Gerard is not an appropriate chaperone, otherwise, I wouldn't hear of your reputation from my acquaintances all the way from Paris."

Gerard was bashful. He sighed and shook his head. He turned around from them, busying himself with the task of cleaning some instruments. As much as he tried not to be involved their arguments, Marianne somehow always dragged him in. But that was the way things were between them. Their lives were intertwined since the beginning. Everything Marianne does, he always seemed to get dragged into. He never minded, though. She was his only friend in the world.

"And what, simply because I talk to men or go unchaperoned, then you assume that I have shared my bed with them?" She said, attempting to provoke a scandalized reaction from him. "Certainly, it is because you believe that women are the creatures of the devil and one cannot do any better than to control them, is that so? We are all witches and seductresses?" She raged.

He was poring over the sketch on his desk, with charcoal in his hand. Unshaken by her tantrum, he began tracing lines onto the paper.

"My dear, do spare me this talk. And believe me, women and their affairs are my last concern in life, I assure you."

_ Well, maybe you need to lay with one or two every once in a while_, she thought to herself.

As if hearing her thoughts, he looked up from his designs, with a dark scrutinizing look in eyes. He shook his head slightly, sighing. He extended his hand and asked her to pass him a long ruler on a table behind her. She obliged him.

"If you must know, I am still virtuous. I have never allowed anyone to approach me in that manner that you seem to imagine," she said, her head high with false dignity. _But why should this be a dignified matter?_ she always thought to herself, _men went around and shared their bed and love with anyone they desired and that was not undignified._

He continued to trace lines with the ruler, his brows furrowed, "Very well, then" he said absent-mindedly. "But in any case, this matter means nothing to me," and then lifting his head, he pointed the ruler at her and said, "And it should not matter to the man you will choose to marry." He then quickly added, "Even though it is my preference that you remain celibate." He betrayed his own sentiments by saying those words, which he immediately regretted. While he saw in Marianne a prodigy and a useful assistant, it scared him to admit to himself that she had become more than that. She had become a companion to him, and in all the best ways: he shared his life's true passion and purpose with her and she had more than accepted it. She embraced it with an equal passion and talent for it as well. In a way, she made him understand the feeling of leaving behind a legacy.

"But you are mistaken again, anyhow, "she continued, "Because there is no man in the world to whom these "matters" do not factor in." In a defeated tone, while tracing imaginary lines on the table, she added, "This is exactly the dilemma. I was born into this abominable sex and there are limitations that exist for me from birth."

Without looking up, he said detachedly, "The dilemma is that you do not realize just how lucky you have been. I do not wish to repeat myself concerning everything I have given you in life, but I implore you to look at how you compare with other members of your sex who certainly _are_ restricted in every manner you speak of." Jokingly, he added, "Indeed, though, my life would have been much quieter if you were a boy."

He looked up from his designs, concerned by a lapse in conversation and a lack of a smart retort. He glimpsed tears at the corner of her eyes. While he was not a soft-hearted man, he was not a cruel one. Nor did he desire to inflict pain on her, but he knew that some things must be done to protect her. He came out from behind his desk towards her and cupped her face with his hands. They were rough and calloused, with dried ink permanently lodged in between the wrinkles of his aging skin.

Then, he said matter-of-factly, in the only way he knew how to impart an affectionate statement, "You are the most intelligent person I have ever known. What tragedy would it be if you were to marry someone like Maxim de Rameau."

He sighed and continued, softly, almost affectionately, with sadness in his voice and a quiet exasperation, "Why do you even wish to become someone's wife in the first place? It will only place you in a cage. You won't be able to do all this." He gestured to the workshop around him. "Your time will no longer be your own, you have to put up with someone's company for the rest of your life. He will control your wealth... not to mention children, my goodness! The mere act of having children. I implore you to think of everything you would be giving up."

He was staring into her amber eyes - forever changing, depending on the light; currently they settled on a dark yellow - her irises dancing in the light, glistening with tears.

"For love...?" she said, her voice shaky. Even she didn't believe herself as she uttered those words.

He grunted loudly, exasperated, he threw his hands up and began walking away to fetch something from across the room, "Honestly, Marianne! I did not raise you to become an imbecile," he shouted behind him.


	3. Preparations

**Chapter 3: Preparations**

The thundering sound of approaching steps echoed on the stone floor in the hollowness of the adjacent pantry, finally coming to a halt as Marianne stormed into her uncle's workshop. She stood shoulders back, daggers in her eyes, auburn hair trailing behind her like a blazing fire. She was dressed in pantaloons and a loose white chemise fitted to her size, in a fashion similar to a riding habit. Teeth clenched, she wrangled her brown leather gloves between her hands.

_What now?_ The old Comte thought to himself, barely shifting his attention from a screw he was fastening. A white apron was draped around his waist and his face was partially covered with thick glasses.

Their morning had been productive and they had accomplished a lot, building the piece of equipment he was currently tinkering with. With a sense of satisfaction after a long day's hard work, Marianne had excused herself to go change for luncheon. And now, ten minutes later, all the good humour from earlier seemed to have dissipated. Marianne's moods were only second to the weather when it came to predicting them.

"There is a gown fit for a queen hanging in my boudoir," she said accusingly, "With an accompanying torturous garment, which I assumed was a most detestable and deeply unforgiving kind of corset," She added.

When Marianne reached her bedroom, she was instantly greeted by a splendid shimmer coming from an exquisite piece of fabric hanging in her boudoir. It was by far the largest and most beautiful gown she had ever seen in her life, let alone worn. The fabric was golden, with varying shades of intertwining gold and silver thread embroidered along the lengths of it in exquisite patterns. Next to it, was a matching golden corset. When Marianne held it up to examine it, she found it stiff and unrelenting; the complete opposite of the linen corsets she was used to wearing. It struck her that, despite her aristocratic origins, she led a rather simple life. All the gowns she had had in her life were simple, innocent, mostly pastel in color; the kind only fitting for country balls. As she caressed the fabric of the skirt between her two fingers, its thick lustrous feel wreaked of royalty and bourgeois. It made her uncomfortable.

"Ah yes, I may have neglected to mention it to you earlier, but we are going to a ball next week," he answered, nonchalantly.

Marianne raised her eyebrows, "_We?_" Marianne had never been to a social event with her uncle before. Aside from it being highly unusual, it sounded like a fun spoiler.

"Yes, the Cardinal has graciously extended us an invitation to the King's ball next week. I think it would be a good idea for you to be introduced in high society. It is time."

She rolled her eyes, and grunted. This was certainly about Maxim. Although Maxim came from a noble family, he was still provincial. Did her uncle think to change her mind by introducing her to the men of higher nobility and rank? But of course, there was also the matter of the Cardinal - the only man in the world her uncle did not despise.

"Well, if it's the Cardinal…" she said mockingly.

"I rather like the Cardinal and enjoy his company. His conversation is… what's the word? Ah yes, scintillating."

"He's an evil man," Marianne retorted disgustingly. She knew all about Cardinal Richelieu, his cunning ways and unrelenting attempts to influence the King to seize control over France.

"He's strategic and calculating. I rather admire that about him," he said, looking up at the ceiling, as if lost in a reverie. "Besides, he always has some interesting ideas for us to work on," he added.

She was about to say something when he put out his hand in an attempt to stop her. "I thank you to leave the conversation at that."

She turned around to leave when he called out to her again, "Marianne, do you like it?" His tone was soft.

She grinned. "It's…what's the word? Ah yes, scintillating." With that, she left.

"Clever girl," the old man chuckled to himself.

* * *

"Please, monsieur, Porthos, if you can stay still for just a moment longer," came the voice of an exasperated Bonacieux, trying to secure the measuring tape along the length of the outstretched arms belonging to the large musketeer.

Porthos frowned, "Bonacieux, you're acting like it's the first time that you're making me a doublet."

The measuring session was taking longer than expected. The musketeers had rallied at Porthos' to set out on their daily rounds when Porthos announced that he was expecting Bonacieux, but that it should not take more than a half hour.

An hour later, Aramis was pacing in the room, while Athos was comfortably seated in a wooden chair at the corner of the room, deeply absorbed in a book. Occasionally, Aramis would creep up behind Porthos to check in on Bonacieux's progress.

"Your measurements are smaller than usual," declared Bonacieux. He walked over to the table to write down his measurements and unfold the fabric samples he had brought with him. With her hands folded across her chest, brows furrowed, Aramis stared at Porthos' figure. She had noticed that he was looking slightly leaner.

Bonacieux called over his client for the fabric selection. Both Aramis and Porthos joined him at the table. With the same degree of enthusiasm, they were both were poring over the samples, caressing them to feel for the texture, and mixing and matching the colors. Aramis would hold up some samples close to Porthos' face to see what would work best against his complexion. For Porthos, this exercise was a self-indulgent pleasure in his pursuit of luxury. But Aramis was determined that Porthos look his best for this ball. She was also determined that Porthos finds a woman worthy of him and if not at this ball, then some time soon.

Occasionally looking up from his book, Athos would sigh and shake his head. He had warned Aramis to give up this notion but she was undeterred, believing that everyone deserves a chance at love, even the freedom-loving and hedonistic Porthos. _You simply can't change the nature of people_, Athos would argue.

Satisfied with their selections, Bonacieux began collecting his things and taking them out to the cart that d'Artagnan was bringing around with the help of Rossinante.

Porthos had been carefully observing Aramis as she kept gravitating towards certain colors, a look of longing in her eyes. Glancing at the door to make sure Bonacieux was out of earshot, he said in a low voice, "Why don't we let d'Artagnan take your measurements and Bonacieux can make you a new gown?"

It had been a while since Aramis herself was measured for a gown. These rare and enjoyable occasions, when the musketeers' presence at Porthos' coincided with that of his tailor's, had become a way for her to live vicariously through Porthos when it came to fashion. Despite the fact that Porthos was not shopping for dresses, Aramis took pleasure in the intricacies of clothes-making.

Athos looked up from his book, his interest piqued. It had been a while since he'd seen the woman he loved and desired in a dress, showcasing her beautiful feminine form. He longed to dance with her at a ball, to show her off and then to take her home afterwards and take pleasure in ripping off her corset, and making passionate love to her by lifting up the skirts of her dress. But the situation was too dangerous and the consequences of anyone finding out her true nature were disastrous. Perhaps on another mission outside of France, he consoled himself.

She smiled at him and shook her head, her thoughts echoing those of Athos'.

D'Artagnan walked into the room to gather the last items for Bonacieux when he overheard Porthos. With a grin, he exclaimed, "I have an idea!" and dashed out before anyone can utter a word.

They looked at each other, confused by the young man's comportment. D'Artagnan returned swiftly, with a parcel in his hand. He closed the door behind him gently and turned the key in the lock. A smirk was dancing on his face. Porthos and Aramis turned to him with questioning looks.

Ignoring their reactions, he carefully placed the parcel on the table and began to unwrap it. The tissue paper fell away, revealing an elegant Prussian blue gown, with a high neckline, embroidered with golden silk thread and a stomacher made with exquisite lace. D'Artagnan held it up for them to admire. Aramis gasped.

"How beautiful!"

D'Artagnan winked, "And it's just in your size."

They all looked at him in surprise. "D'Artagnan, where did you get this from?" questioned Aramis.

"It doesn't matter, I already sent Bonacieux away with Rossinante. I said I had urgent business with the musketeers and that I will catch up to him in time at Madame Chambord's to return her dress. He won't notice, I promise."

"But…" Aramis was speechless.

"Try it on!" D'Artagnan pushed the dress towards Aramis.

The three men in the room were looking at her, encouragingly. "Come on!" prodded Porthos. Athos, still silent, was looking on with great interest, his book lying flat on his lap. She looked at him imploringly. Wasn't he their leader? Wasn't he supposed to put a stop to these funny shenanigans? But he did not seem in the least inclined to discourage this. _Oh well_, she thought, and headed into the adjacent dressing room.

A few minutes and a thousand curses later, Aramis stepped out timidly.

"It's not perfectly to my fit, but…"

She was a divine vision. The rich blue of the dress perfectly contrasted with her golden locks, simultaneously bringing out the deep azure in her eyes, like stunning sapphires. Athos stood up to admire her, completely besotted. He felt such desire and tenderness in his heart: this bewitching goddess belonged to him.

"Well, Madame, may I have this dance?" Porthos bowed, extending his hand.

"Why, certainly," she smiled warmly, blushing. She joined her hand in his, as he placed his arm around her waist and they pretended to dance. Aramis, not having danced since her adolescences, was tripping and stepping on Porthos' toes. Their pretend dance was punctuated with hearty laughs, an endless stream of curses and scathing but playful remarks from Porthos.

Athos was gazing intently at Aramis: the way she moved, the way the dress accentuated her delicious curves was just feeding his carnal desire for her.

Porthos playfully jabbed at him, "You're not jealous I'm dancing with Aramis, are you?"

Feigning indifference, Athos replied, "Only if you keep your hands in their appropriate place."

He twirled her around a few times, making her laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation. It made Athos smile. Eventually, Porthos twirled her around towards Athos, who caught her before she lost her balance.

With his strong arms wrapped around her waist, Athos dipped Aramis, making her giggle. She stopped upon seeing his gaze, full of desire and passion. He danced well. His noble roots and aristocratic upbringing made him a splendid dancer. But she did not want to inflate his ego just yet. Playfully, she said, "Well, Porthos dances better than you, Monsieur Athos, what do you have to say to that?"

Athos, feigning indignation, "Does he?" He lowered her more, kissing her passionately, and for her ears only, "Well, let's see if you'll have a different idea after I've finished with you tonight." With a swift move, he brought her back to her feet. With a playful smile, and an anticipatory gaze, she gently pushed him away by placing her hand on his chest. Once free from him, she took d'Artagnan's arm and wrapped it around her back, prompting him to dance with her.

"By the way, d'Artagnan, you must learn how to dance properly before you become Constance's husband. She won't want you if she sees how you really dance," jested Porthos, adopting a look of pity.

Athos smiled at his friends and went back to his book, leaving them to their fun. A warm feeling spread through his being. Love and friendship, what could anyone want more? Perhaps Aramis was right after all.

* * *

"Enter," a crisp voice came from the depths of the grand room.

The man who entered bowed. "You Eminence."

"Ah, Rochefort," the Cardinal greeted his visitor without looking up from his papers.

"You wanted to see me?"

Stamping his seal onto a folded letter, the Cardinal finally looked up, "I am expecting some important guests at the King's ball next week."

"Naturally," replied Rochefort, slightly inclining his head.

"One of my guests is a rather…," the Cardinal paused searching for the right words, "…eccentric fellow."

"Oh?" Rochefort was intrigued.

"He is somewhat of a recluse and does not venture out into society. But as it happens, he has accepted my invitation. He has also written to inform me that his niece, to whom he has bequeathed the County of Dandurand, will be attending with him and is to be presented at her first ball in high society."

"Bequeathed his title to his niece?" Rochefort was shocked.

The Cardinal rose from his seat and walked towards the window, his back to Rochefort. "Yes, as I said, an eccentric fellow."

"Forgive me your Eminence, but I am surprised that you would keep such company if…" The Cardinal turned around abruptly, interrupting Rochefort with a dark look.

"The Comte de Dandurand," he continued, irritated, "Or I should say, the former Comte, has shown himself to be a very important and useful individual to France. His inventions are ingenious. You might recall the submarine that we had commissioned for the King two years ago, before the unfortunate incident of the Iron Mask."

"Indeed," Rochefort nodded slowly.

"The Comte and I have many things to discuss and if all goes well, I shall commission him for a large endeavour for the sake of France. Our enemies grow bigger and we must have an advantage. A mere armada is not enough."

The Cardinal stroked his beard absent-mindedly.

"I believe the Comte hopes his niece will make a good match. And as a token of my appreciation for him and my continued interest in his work, I offered him my own lieutenant to escort his niece to the ball. And if all goes well…" He trailed off, lost in his own schemes.

Rochefort instantly frowned, a ball of rage building up in his chest. So, his plans of finding a fine aristocratic woman or two to take up as mistress during the ball have officially been foiled. Instead, he will be escorting a nobody, a provincial girl. He was always loyal to the Cardinal, but sometimes the Cardinal's schemes did not run in Rochefort's favor. Why must his superior be so exasperating?

Sensing his tension, the Cardinal wanted to appease his most loyal servant, "I have heard that she is not bad looking and I suspect that with the bit of toilettage that I will afford her, she may even be to your taste."

An interesting offer. Perhaps he can get something out of her at the end of the night. These provincial country girls are known for their unruliness and lack of manners. Besides, the sheer size of the ball, the extravagance and the glamorous attendees will undoubtedly shock her. She will be left feeling shy and vulnerable, as is the case with unexperienced young ladies coming out for the first time. A cunning smile formed on Rochefort's face. This might be fun after all.


	4. The Ball Part I

**Chapter 4: The Ball Part I**

Cardinal Richelieu was deeply engaged in a hushed conversation with an old friend when he stopped short. His companion turned around to investigate the source of the Cardinal's abrupt silence.

Neither of them remarked the facial expression of the servant who stood behind them, but the young Gerard de Villebois – servant of the Dandurand household – was just dumbstruck as his master and the Cardinal.

Descending the marble stairs in the Cardinal's reception area, delicately holding the banister with one daintily-gloved hand and another lifting her skirts, a ravishing young woman gracefully made her way towards the two men.

In reality, Marianne de Dandurand was trying hard not to trip and break her nose. She could barely see her feet from under this gigantic skirt, and her balance was threatened with every step she took. Moreover, the tight corset she wore restricted her such that she was unable to fully bend at the waist, further impeding her from tracking the progress of her steps.

She had never felt so physically helpless in her entire life.

With difficulty, she finally succeeded in arriving safely at the landing. She took a deep breath and smoothed out her skirts. She grinned inwardly to herself as she entertained the admiring looks of those in attendance. Despite her displeasure at this monstrosity of an outfit, she herself couldn't help but admire her breathtaking reflection in the mirror.

One had to admit that she was a divine and captivating image: her auburn hair was coiffed half in an elegant updo, while the rest flowed down in elegant curls to her shoulders, framing her cheeks and showcasing her neck. Her dress shimmered both in color and in extravagance, giving her an air of high-born royalty. Her amber eyes glowed in shades of gold and brass. Her form was upright, elegant, her corset highlighted her natural curves and bringing out the fullness of an alluring bosom.

Following a few seconds' delay, her uncle awoke from his entrancement and quickly pranced over to her. He bowed slightly, offered her his arm and walked her towards the Cardinal. "You look ravishing, Marianne," he was beaming.

She curtseyed for the Cardinal a courtesy fit for a king.

_Very well, if it's a snobby aristocrat you want, then one you shall get, _Marianne thought to herself.

She had no patience for pretense. She also detested the Cardinal and intended on mocking him as much as possible - even secretly to herself.

Alas, not noticing the exaggeration in her manner, the Cardinal was flattered.

Then, rising up to meet his gaze with such confidence, she spoke:

"My Uncle and I are grateful for your generosity, Your Eminence. Please forgive my tardiness."

She bowed again. The Cardinal had offered them accommodations for the ball and toilettage for Marianne.

The Cardinal looked Marianne up and down, his eyes lingering on her neck and chest.

"Naturally, young ladies must take their time in preparation. You are most welcome in Paris, Madame la Comtesse."

In reality, Marianne had dismissed the ladies waiting on her and spent the last half hour attempting to hide a dagger up her stockings - a common practice when going out for long walks in the country, where one never knows what wild predators there might be. A ballroom in Paris was no different.

Hearing familiar footsteps behind him, Cardinal Richelieu turned around:

"Ah, Rochefort, there you are. Allow me to introduce the past Comte de Dandurand and his niece, Comtesse Marianne de Dandurand."

Marianne stiffened at the sight of the newcomer. Despite his seemingly noble origins, nothing about him indicated that he was a true gentleman. He wore a malevolent look on his face that was further accentuated by a black eye patch covering one of his eyes. _Predator number one_, she thought, feeling reassured by the coldness of the blade under her dress.

"The Comte de Rochefort at your service, Madame."

Rochefort bowed slightly to Marianne, his one eye returning her gaze with a greedy one, before finally resting on her bosom. _Not bad, Rochefort thought to himself. Not bad at all._

"Marianne, the Cardinal has further extended his generosity by offering his most trusted lieutenant to be your ball escort," her uncle announced.

Marianne looked up at her uncle, questioningly. An escort? Wasn't the point of a royal ball to be presented in society and to dance with different partners so as to increase one's value in the hopes of making a good match? While Marianne wasn't the romantic type, she was at least hoping to make the best out of the situation in which she was involuntarily roped into. She intended on enjoying the ball as much as possible, counting on the fact that she could certainly escape her uncle by losing herself in the crowd. Apparently, this wasn't meant to be.

And then there was Maxim. Would he hear about her being escorted to the ball with someone else? She had the feeling he wouldn't be too pleased about it. But her interest in him was already waning. He was becoming too possessive for her liking. How could she have even thought of marrying him? Sometimes she felt as though she had no choice. He was so… _controlling_. Perhaps it was time to cut the cord, but certainly not with a man like this Comte de Rochefort. She grimaced.

Still frozen in place, lost in her thoughts, she was brought to back by the sound of a deliberate cough from her uncle.

Composing herself, she bowed again to the Cardinal and murmured a "thank you". Satisfied by Marianne's beauty and good manners, the Cardinal wore a triumphant smile. He gestured the group towards the doors. They turned around to leave when Rochefort offered her his arm, barely glancing at her. She threw a beseeching look behind her at Gerard. He shrugged, and gave an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, I'll be there," he mouthed to her.

Reassured, she took Rochefort's arm and they walked into to the carriage headed to the Louvre.

* * *

The Royal Ballroom was beginning to fill up. Aramis was restless, carefully examining every person who walked through the big splendid doors. Porthos frowned.

"I'm sure we'll have no trouble tonight, you don't need to be so uptight."

"You never know," replied Aramis, without humour. In reality, she was scrutinizing every woman in attendance. Porthos deserved the absolute best and she will help him find it.

"All is well?" Athos had come by to check in on his comrades.

"Aramis suspects that everyone here is a terrible menace, part of a secret conspiracy," Porthos jested.

Athos grimaced. "We all know our posts and shifts for the evening?" he said, trying to get Aramis' attention and shift it away from the attendees, "Captain de Treville is counting on us to make sure all is well and secure tonight."

"Noted," she said, coolly.

Athos frowned. He leaned closer to her and whispered, "You won't leave this alone, will you?"

She shot him a challenging look.

He shook his head and sighed. "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you," with a wave of his hand, he left them to their post.

When Athos left, Aramis looked at her companion. Porthos was looking exceptionally fine with his new habit this evening. He was already attracting the attention of many women with his easy charm and generous smiles. Of all the musketeers, Porthos was the most agreeable, the friendliest, the most loyal and sometimes the most gullible. If Porthos were to find a woman to love, then it must be necessary to find one who was good-hearted, honest and noble in all meaning of the word.

Interrupting her train of thought, Porthos gently nudged Aramis, "Madame Claremont looks rather ravishing this evening, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Her gaze traveled to where Porthos was pointing. Madame Claremont was a robust lady, with exaggerated curves that she seemed to love to show off in her selection of dresses. She wore perfectly coiffed ginger curls, possessed cheeks that were naturally flushed and her eyes glowed bright blue with a perpetual mischief in them. She was always rambunctious in her manner, a notorious flirt among the courtiers. Porthos used to frequent her at a certain point but they ended it a while ago when she went traveling after a scandal.

Spotting Porthos, she winked at him and gave him a suggestive smile, while tracing her fingers on her cleavage, and licking her lips seductivelyIn response, Porthos began to make his way towards her when his wrist was firmly caught by his companion. Aramis did not look approving. But then again, when was she ever approving when it came to women? Even when she was a man, Aramis was always the prude, the preacher, the fun-killer.

"Come on, Aramis, it's Madame Claremont! You remember her," Porthos groaned.

"Unfortunately, yes," replied Aramis drily. It was a memory she had hoped to forget. Once, the musketeers had planned to meet at Porthos' house before the start of a mission. Since Aramis was early, she decided to wait outside for Athos, when she suddenly heard a lady screaming. Instinctively, she barged into the house, only to find a nude woman bent over on the stairs, with an equally nude Porthos behind her, performing an aggressive rhythmic move as the lady moaned and cried, "More, more!" Horrified, Aramis involuntarily cried out, placating her hand on their mouth, frozen in her steps. Upon seeing her, the couple abruptly stopped and ran up the stairs to get dressed. Porthos hurled a stream of curses to which his lady responded with wild laughter. Then, as she was leaving, Madame Claremont came up to Aramis, "I'm sorry you had to see that, handsome," she winked and slapped Aramis' behind.

"We're on duty tonight. Besides, not everyone is here yet." She said, scanning the room once more. There had to be someone better than Madame Claremont.

Porthos huffed at Aramis. He gestured towards the room, "Everyone who is important is already here. And aside from Madame Beauchemin," he pointed to an attractive petite brunette, "who does not want to see me anymore because of some sort of misunderstanding about another woman, there is no one more attractive than Madame Claremont."

"Not everyone," said Aramis, finally turning to her companion, "Cardinal Richelieu and Rochefort aren't here yet."

His friend was clearly losing her mind. What could possibly interest him about the Cardinal and his natural-born enemy, the Comte de Rochefort? Despite their collaboration in Belle-Isle, Rochefort was still as disagreeable as ever.

"Aramis, you're being ridicu-" Porthos began, when suddenly the room stopped. As the Cardinal made his entrance, the attendees and the dancers along his path stopped to bow and greet him. He walked in with an older man by his side, with whom he was happily conversing. The Cardinal, in turn, would stop here and there to greet those of importance to him. He seemed remarkably jovial, prompting both musketeers to exchange looks.

And then, trailing behind the Cardinal and his guest, the smug face of his lieutenant, Rochefort, made its appearance amongst the crowd. Naturally, he was attired in the most expensive and perfectly tailored habit. But the most distinguishing feature of Rochefort this evening was the presence of a breathtaking lady on his arm. Invariably, it could be said that she was the most beautiful woman in the room. To top it off, she had auburn hair, Porthos' favorite.

Aramis grinned triumphantly and said preachingly, "Patience is a virtue, my friend."

"Well thank you, Aramis. Now I can enjoy_ looking_ at the most beautiful woman in the room without any hope of approaching her. Exactly what I was hoping for this evening," he said sarcastically.

Porthos was right. For about two hours, the lady in question hadn't left Rochefort's side at all. In fact, the party she came with remained rooted in the same spot throughout this whole time, save for an occasion when they had gone to present their respects to the King. Clearly, whoever she was, she seemed to be an important person. The worst part was that she was important to the very people the musketeers loathed: The Cardinal and Rochefort.

In any case, her allure was slowly fading for Porthos. Despite her astounding presence and unrivaled beauty, there was a certain coldness in her eyes, a disdainful look. She barely danced or conversed with anyone. She seemed haughty and irreproachable. Porthos snorted, _Those high-born aristocrats!_

Porthos was once again in vile humour. He even thwarted all of Madame Clairmont's attentions, who, evidently found someone else very quickly. And with his head down, Porthos left to take up his scheduled post outside of the ballroom, leaving behind a disappointed Aramis.

* * *

After watching her for a while, Aramis began to notice that the lady's disposition shifted periodically from looking down, to taking deep breaths followed by resting her eyes intently towards a point on the wall adjacent to where Aramis was standing.

And then she saw him. A handsome young man in a servant's attire. His hair was golden brown, with untameable locks falling onto the side of his face. His skin was tanned in that characteristic way of farmers or country folk who spend long hours in the sun. They probably came together from the same estate, Aramis thought. Was he her lover?

Aramis was caught off guard when the gaze of the young man suddenly turned on her, as he became aware of her watching him. His eyes were a bewitching deep green. Aramis blushed and turned away, yet she could still feel his gaze on her. She looked up and caught his eye again. It was intense, riddled with some passion and desire. But how? Is it possible that he knew she was a woman?

He turned away abruptly from her, cutting off their eye contact. She followed his gaze to see what caught his attention and ended up witnessing a series of events that confirmed her suspicions from the beginning: The lady with Rochefort was not there out of her own will.

Rochefort had rudely pressed Marianne to dance.

"Please, sir, I assure you I am not a suitable dance partner," Marianne was protesting. But he was undeterred and too strong for her to resist. She tried to retake her wrist from him but he only pulled her closer to him, his hand wrapping around her waist. She let out a small cry. He brought himself nose-to-nose with her.

"I'm sure you have many charms that will compensate for your skill," he said, slyly, his eye moving down her bare neck towards her bosom. She tried to pull away again but he held her closer. She then felt his hand move lower, where he took the liberty to grab her behind. Like a wild animal, Marianne pushed him away with all her strength and slapped him straight across the face.

Then, horrified by the scene she had created, she held up her hand to cover her face, now turning deep crimson, and began to shuffle through the crowds, looking around for an exit. Rochefort looked disdainfully in her direction and moved towards the edge of the crowd. To his misfortune, his superior had witnessed the entire spectacle and Rochefort had turned around to see him standing right behind him, with a menacing look on his face. His hissed at Rochefort, "Do not embarrass me, Rochefort. Follow the girl and bring her back this instant."

In her frenzy to find an exit, Marianne was stumbling and bumping into the crowds in a most ungraceful manner. While it was funny to watch, Aramis understood perfectly: the "lady" was just a provincial girl in the wrong place, forced into the company of the wrong people. An all-too familiar story.

Marianne kept looking behind her when she saw Rochefort headed her way. She began to feel sick. What will he do with her now? She needed to get out. She was gasping for air. No, she cannot faint, she was better than that. Ah, but this corset was tugging so hard. Rochefort was getting closer. Where was the exit, for God's sake? Almost on her tail, Rochefort was close enough to touch Marianne when she felt a pair of strong arms pull her from the waist and whisk her off to the far corner of the room, near where the King and Queen sat.

It all happened so fast. Marianne's rescuer hid her behind a curtain, allowing her to catch her breath, before reappearing again. Marianne had her back to the wall, when the young man with flowing golden hair and piercing blue eyes reached behind her to pull a lever. It was a door. Marianne looked at him straight in the eyes. He looked back at her. For a moment, Aramis was mesmerized by Marianne's amber eyes, now turned a dark orange.

In a melodic Alto voice, the stranger spoke, "Run along this corridor, turn right, take the first door on the left. It should take you straight to the King's private gardens. I will come find you later."

"Wait, but you are..."

The girl was holding onto Aramis' arm, looking bewildered.

"Aramis of the King's Musketeers at your service," she bowed.

"Thank you, Aramis. I'm Marianne." Aramis smiled warmly at her. It all made sense now. From her lack of formality, Aramis could sense a warm disposition underlying that haughty and glacial attitude. No doubt a defense mechanism in the company of unpleasant people. Her eyes had a quiet calculating defiance in them. Six years ago, that might have been Aramis herself.

"The pleasure is all mine. Now you must hurry before Rochefort comes," she said, gently pushing Marianne and untangling her arm from her.

"But wait, you're a...," Marianne was besides herself. Was that a _woman_ in musketeer attire? Was she hallucinating? It must be all the excitement clouding her judgement, and yet…

"Hurry," hissed Aramis. Marianne lifted her skirts and ran, the door behind her closing shut.

Aramis had blockaded the door, stood legs apart and arms crossed. She puffed her chest out and pushed an earnest Rochefort away. "No one is allowed in there tonight, even you, Rochefort," she said commandingly.

"Out of my way, Aramis," Rochefort growled. _Damned musketeers!_

Aramis placed her hand suggestively on her sword.

"What's all this?" Came a calm yet assertive voice.

_Another musketeer._ Rochefort grunted

Through clenched teeth, he said "The lady I was with needed some air and she took the wrong exit door. I am to go find her but Monsieur Aramis here is blocking my way."

"That's not what it looked it to me," snapped Aramis.

"And what would _you_ know about women, Monsieur Aramis?" menaced Rochefort.

_You have no idea_, thought Aramis.

Trying to regain control over the situation, Athos stood in between them. "Calm yourselves, both of you. We can't attract attention at the King's Ball."

Feeling their bodies slightly relax, he continued, "It's alright Aramis, let him through." The he whispered to her, out of Rochefort's earshot, "Porthos is patrolling the gardens. I'm sure he'll appreciate that we send him some entertainment."

A devilish smile tugged at the corner of Aramis' mouth. Through all the excitement, she had forgotten that Porthos was posted in the King's Private Gardens. She stepped aside. Rochefort brushed closely past her, threatening her with a menacing look.

When he was gone Aramis breathed a sight of relief and closed the door behind her. She and Athos stood side by side guarding the door, shoulders touching. She subtly leaned into him.

"How I wish I could dance with you," he whispered to her.

"You forget, Monsieur, I'm a terrible dancer." She looked up at him her blue eyes shimmering, melting his heart. He smiled, recalling that innocent afternoon at Porthos'. Backs straight, arms behind their backs, Athos' finger reached out and held Aramis'. They stood side by side as soldiers, their fingers intimately dancing together as lovers.

Throughout the excitement, Aramis hadn't noticed that the handsome young servant had followed his mistress to where Aramis had led her and was now standing inconspicuously watching the door, when he saw the two musketeers holding hands. _What can this mean?_ _Could it be that, as he hoped, the blond musketeer preferred men?_ But there was no time for this, he had to find Marianne.


	5. The Ball Part II (The Meeting)

**Chapter 5: The Ball Part II**

Marianne found herself facing a large fountain with a marble statue of a nymph placed in its center. She made an attempt to plop down onto the wide edge of the basin but her tight corset reminded her of her inability to move.

Hearing a commotion, Porthos had quickly made his way through the hedges in the garden towards the entrance. There, he saw that young lady by the fountain, slightly crouched over, her hands on her hips, her gaze fixated onto the tiled floor, as if frozen in place. She appeared lost in a daze that even his appearance did not move her.

"May I be of assistance, Madame?" he said, carefully approaching her as one would a wild animal.

Marianne jumped and Porthos froze. Her face was completely flushed, her forehead was glistening, her chest heaved violently up and down in a heavy breathing rhythm.

They contemplated each other silently for a minute or so. The man in front of her was tall, of a big build, with arms that looked strong enough to lift the fountain behind her. His bulky legs looked like they were sculpted purely from muscle. In short, he looked like someone you did not want to meet in battle. Yet, despite his colossal features, there was a certain honorableness, warmth and kindness in his eyes.

She was about to say something when the sound of heavy footsteps, echoing from the hallway leading to the door, stopped her.

Panicked, she ran towards Porthos, "He's here! Please don't let him see me." She dashed behind some bushes, trying hard to pull in her skirts about her. Her corset was digging into her waist at this point and it was becoming painful. Marianne bit her wrist to control the pain.

Instinctively, Porthos unsheathed his sword in anticipation of the newcomer. Who could it be? Who was this woman and who was menacing her? Could it be that she was running from… as the name was coming to him, a breathless Rochefort penetrated the gardens.

Yes, to the last question, Porthos thought, as he put his sword away.

"Where is she?" Rochefort yelled.

"Where is who?" Porthos replied, nonchalantly, keeping close to the bushes where Marianne was hiding.

"The young lady who ran into the gardens not 10 minutes ago, you imbecile!" Rochefort raged, taking a step closer to Porthos.

Porthos, in turn, took another step towards Rochefort, towering over him with his immense countenance. "As you can see, Monsieur _le Comte_," he gestured towards the empty gardens, "There's no one here."

Rochefort was fuming, his hand traveled to his sword.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Porthos looked mockingly at Rochefort while the latter glowered.

Finally, Porthos ventured, "Did you check the cellars? Perhaps the lady in question took the wrong door on the way here."

"I know full well she's not in the cellars because it was your insipid comrade who led her here. And knowing Monsieur Aramis, he wouldn't let a lady end up in the cellars," retorted Rochefort.

_Oh, but you know nothing of Aramis, Rochefort._

"Now move away and let me search these bloody gardens!"

Marianne stiffened.

Porthos crossed his arms on his chest, "I'm afraid I can't. This is Musketeer territory and currently under _my_ protection."

Swiftly, Rochefort pulled his sword and put it to Porthos' neck. Porthos stiffened. _Very well, Rochefort. If it's a duel you want, it's a duel you'll get. Looks like there will be some fun after all!_

Porthos grinned and in the blink of an eye, he grabbed Rochefort's wrist, deflecting the sword away. Still keeping a tight grip, he proceeded to twist Rochefort's arm, pushing him violently against the wall by the entrance, where he sank to the ground. Porthos took a few steps back, keeping an eye on his adversary, as he pleasurably cracked his knuckles and neck.

Back on his feet, Rochefort lunged at Porthos again with his sword. The giant briskly unsheathed his and the blades clashed. The clink of metal on metal continued on for a few minutes until Porthos disarmed Rochefort and with his iron fist, pinned him against the wall. Porthos' other fist was inches from Rochefort's face when Rochefort cried, "No, I beg you!" Porthos stopped midway. "Fine, I'll leave, but take your fist away from my face."

Porthos smirked; he wasn't going to hit him anyway, but it was fun to make him think so.

Rochefort smoothed out his habit and hair, trying to regain some of his dignity. The last thing he needed was to show up with a bloody nose to the King's ball. The disapproving look of the Cardinal was imprinted in his memory. He cleared his throat, "Which way is the cellar?"

Putting his sword back and grinning, Porthos replied, "Second door on your left from here."

Grunting, Rochefort left. Porthos followed him long enough to make sure he was truly gone. Then, straightening his own clothes and hair, he moved towards the bushes to see the lady struggling to get to her feet. She was about to topple over when he caught her by the arms and lifted her up. His strong arms lingered around her waist a bit longer than necessary. Their eyes met, hers were bewildered with embarrassment, his with a smiling warm disposition. She lowered her gaze and he let her go, reluctantly.

"Is he gone for sure?"

"I can assure you he shan't be back. But should you wish to join him again…" he trailed off, gesturing towards the door.

"Heavens, no!" cried Marianne. Then, catching herself, "I meant, perhaps not just yet."

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, smiling at her. She looked so different here than in the ballroom: so wild, so colorful, her eyes expressive and bright. There was nothing of that glacial haughtiness.

"Yeah, Rochefort is not the most charming man out there. Curious choice on your part," he jested.

Marianne chuckled. "If you must know, it was _not_ my choice. The Cardinal had arranged it. He's a friend of my uncle's." Marianne surprised herself by her blunt declarations.

"I'm Marianne, and I believe I owe you a thanks for…" A surprised look on his face interrupted her. Then she realized, not only had she introduced herself before the gentleman did, she had also referred to her first name, completely bare of any titles. Like a common prostitute! Couldn't these luxurious tiles burst open and swallow her? And yet, there was something about this man that made her feel so at ease.

Recovering herself, she curtseyed and without meeting his gaze, "Forgive my manners, I've had quite an eventful evening. I'm the Comtesse de Dandurand."

"Charmed to make your acquaintance, Comtesse," Porthos bowed, taking her hand and gently kissing it.

He straightened up, "Porthos du Vallon, of the King's Musketeers, at your service."

Their eyes locked. Her eyes shimmered in the dull light bleeding from the wide windows above. She was about to seat herself on the ledge of the fountain, when a loud rattle began to echo through the corridor leading to the entrance. Porthos pulled her up again and gently ushered her back behind the bushes.

He stood as he was before, covering the area where she hid with his large body, his eyes fixated on the entrance, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

* * *

He let out a big sigh of relief when he saw the slender figure of his friend, Athos, preceded by a large tray wheeled on a kitchen cart and filled with all kinds of delicacies.

"I thought you might be hungry," Athos jovially declared.

"That is kind of you!" Porthos replied. Athos remarked an unusual gleam in the eyes of his friend. He looked around, inspecting the place. A strange shimmer caught his eye from behind the bushes and he smiled to himself.

"Nothing out of the ordinary?" he innocently inquired.

"Quite uneventful," replied Porthos, coolly. They were both barely suppressing their smiles.

"Very well then, I shall return to Aramis."

As he was walking away, Porthos called him back, "Thank you for the entertainment, by the way. You might want to check the cellars, I sent him there." Athos looked back over his shoulders, chuckled and shook his head. He then made his way to the cellars to make sure Rochefort wouldn't come back this way.

* * *

"It's alright, that was just Athos, another musketeer and one of my closest friends," announced Porthos, helping Marianne up for the second time. To her mortification, Marianne's stomach grumbled loudly, prompting a rambunctious laugh from Porthos.

Marianne stared hungrily at the tray. It was a 3-storey trolley laden with a five-course meal: creamy soup, several different appetizers, two main courses, wine and various kinds of cakes, pudding and patisseries for dessert. She hadn't eaten all day and barely the day before so she can fit into her dress. No wonder she felt faint. At least it wasn't all nerves.

She watched as Porthos began unloading the first course onto the ledge of the fountain. In any case, she had made enough of a fool of herself and now it's time to leave this musketeer to his well-deserved meal and head back to the ballroom.

"Well, thank you again, Monsieur Porthos. Forgive my intrusion, I must leave you to it now."

Sensing her reluctance to leave, Porthos made her a proposition: "You know, in my expert opinion on the subject, food never tastes quite as good unless it's shared. So, will you stay to ensure that my food tastes the best it possibly could?"

Marianne laughed, "Very well, I'm convinced!"

She ate as if she had never seen food in her life. It was delicious, sumptuous and she found herself making all kinds of approving noises, to Porthos' great amusement.

"Try this one," he said, as he lifted a piece of cake to her lips. There was something so sensual in the way he held it and in the way she took it in her mouth from his fingers. By now, having taken their gloves off, Marianne noticed his thick hands, strong yet gentle. She wondered what they must feel like on different places of her body; holding her waist, running through her hair, grabbing her thighs and oh, cupping her breasts! She blushed.

"I never thought I'd ever meet someone with as much appetite and enjoyment of food as I!" he chuckled.

Swallowing, Marianne said, "It's a discovery for me too, I daresay. I've grown accustomed to the plain food our housekeeper prepares. My uncle is not much for the delights of life."

"Well that's sad," frowned Porthos. He reached back into the tray with a new dessert and held it out to Marianne, who hungrily devoured it. Porthos was beaming at her, like a teacher proud of his student. Marianne, seeing the look in his eyes laughed heartily until she choked on her dessert and Porthos had to pat her on the back and give her some wine to wash it down. She laughed some more, wiping tears from her eyes.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she placed her hand on her abdomen. "Argh, this darned corset." _Again with these ill-mannered declarations!_ She berated herself. She can't have had that much wine… Porthos smiled to himself. He pretended not to hear to save her some embarrassment. He poured her a glass of water and began clearing out the dishes while she inclined back, resting on her palms, taking in the fresh air. She felt so much more alive. Happy, even - a sense of complete satisfied abandon.

Porthos settled down a few inches away from her. They both looked up at the night sky, admiring the stars in a comfortable silence.

After some time, Porthos began admiring Marianne's figure from the corner of his eye. Despite the weak light, he was able to discern stains on her hands: ink, charcoal and a few scars from what looked like a small cutting knife.

Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, she massaged her palms onto her lap. "I may be a Comtesse, but I'm not an idle person," she said, without turning to him, a look of pride shone in her eyes.

His intrigue for this beautiful and unusual noblewoman was mounting. Porthos loved women. He was a generous lover who appreciated everything a woman had to offer. But in all his conquests, a genuine interest in a woman's personality was never an ingredient. Yet he now found himself particularly drawn to the very spirit of this woman, attuned to every small gesture, as if each could reveal yet another piece of the puzzle he was longing to solve.

Nevertheless, this was not the right moment to press on for more details. Instead, he contented himself with admiring her. The auburn hair reflecting shades of brassy red and glossy brown; her cheeks rouge from the wine; her lips deliciously red and plump; her bosom, full and beckoning; her waist, curvaceous and seductive. Most remarkably was the rare color of her eyes: a golden bewitching amber.

"I would have asked you to dance at the ball."

She turned to him, with a faint smile hinting of regret. Yes, she would have loved that.

"I would ask you now, but unfortunately I am still on duty."

"I'm sure it is all for the best, Monsieur."

He looked away from her, half in disappointment.

"My dancing would have surely embarrassed you and the King would have dismissed you from his service right then and there."

He laughed. "Well, lucky for you, I'm a great teacher."

Marianne jumped up, "Well, if you must insist, Monsieur Porthos."

Porthos smiled, "Please call me Porthos. We already broke bread together."

Marianne grinned, "Only if you call me Marianne." He bowed his head in agreement.

"Very well, Mademoiselle Marianne," her name on his tongue sounded so delicious.

"You can teach me on one condition," she said playfully.

He looked at her questioningly. What did she have in mind?

"I specify the kind of dance."

"You have my word, then."

A mischievous smile dessinated on Marianne's face as she started to lift her skirts, revealing white lace stockings covering her legs all the way to her mid-thigh. Embarrassed, and confused, Porthos looked away.

"Well I'm sure it's nothing you haven't seen before, being a solider and all," she teased.

"Not a solider. A musketeer," he replied, "and I uphold the honor of a Comtesse."

She snorted, still fiddling with her dress.

"So, if I weren't noble, you would give yourself the liberty to look at me while I am half undressed?" She challenged.

After much difficulty, he allowed himself to look at her. Before any arousing thoughts crossed his mind, his gaze travelled upwards on her right thigh towards a shiny-looking object. It was a dagger, and it seemed to have gotten intertwined within her stockings

What was the meaning of this? Was Aramis right to be suspect of everyone? Surely, Marianne didn't look like someone planning an irresponsible act.

"For a dance, I thought we could parry. It _is_ somewhat of a dance, after all, is it not?" And there it was. Porthos had been had.

It was a droll sight: Marianne struggling with the dagger, fumbling and almost tripping over on her dress. She was ravishing. All he could think of now was helping her take off the whole ensemble of her gown.

In her extraction attempt, Marianne completely lost balance. Swiftly, Porthos caught her as she was falling to her side. His hands traveled to her thigh and with a brisk move, he pulled out the dagger. She gasped. The touch of his hand made her shudder. It felt rugged and decisive.

He released her from his arms, and stood facing her, twirling the dagger in his hand, a serious expression on his face.

"First of all, this is blunt and it will not do you any good. Except if you plan on cutting butter."

Then pointing the dagger at her, he traced an invisible line in the air along her figure, finally pointing it where the it was placed on her thigh.

"Second, that is a terrible place to hide your weapon. By the time you lift your skirts to take it out the assailant would have finished you."

As a demonstration, he lunged at her, grabbed her from behind, and lifted the dagger to her throat. She let out a loud gasp.

His grip was loose. He then moved his hands away and put the dagger in her hand. She could tell he was not in a joking humour anymore.

Before he moved away, he took the opportunity to steal a glance at her bosom from above. _Delicious_!

"Now," he began, "_En garde_." With that, he drew his sword.

For the next hour, Porthos walked Marianne through some fencing basics. The proper stance, the lunge, a parry, a counterattack. Then, putting weapons aside, he showed her how to make a proper fist, how to use her body weight in an attack and a few self-defence movements.

"It's not always about the sword," he repeated Capitaine de Treville's words. The only thing he was unable to show her was how to kick, since her dress prevented her from doing so.

Tired and sweaty from this unexpected exercise, Porthos was patting his face with some water from the fountain when he felt a movement behind him. In a split second, he had unsheathed his sword and met Marianne's dagger in midair. A surprise attack! Marianne was grinning; she was hungry for another round.

"For Heaven's sake, Marianne!" cried a rapidly approaching voice. The clash of metal on metal was abruptly interrupted.

The intruder, running at full speed, came to a halt. He was hyperventilating. Marianne and Porthos lowered their weapons, stupefied. They were by the entrance this whole time, how did he get in?

"May I introduce Gerard de Villebois?" said Marianne quietly, herself breathless from the exercise. She was displeased at this unfortunate interruption of her evening.

Seeing he was in the company of a gentleman, and a rather superior one in size and girth, Gerard bowed.

"Sir, whatever is the case, I humbly apologize for my mistress. It was I who taught the Comtesse to keep a dagger with her at all times for protection and I am sure she meant no harm and it was a misunderstanding. I will happily fight a duel if it appeases you."

Porthos was utterly confused.

"Gerard looks out for me. He and I grew up together," Marianne explained, "He works with my uncle now and he attends events with us as our groomsman."

What a strange family, Porthos thought.

Porthos approached Gerard. There was a manner in Gerard's demeanour that dispelled any doubts or jealousy that sprang up in Porthos' heart the moment Marianne said that he looks out for her. He couldn't explain what it was, but Gerard seemed… non-threatening. In fact, he seemed like a good friend to have. But wait, jealousy? Porthos was never jealous nor was he ever the possessive kind.

"Your uncle and the Comte de Rochefort are looking for you," Gerard addressed Marianne.

Putting her dagger away, "Really! I'm surprised my uncle has even noticed." Glancing at Gerard, she knew that her uncle hadn't in fact noticed. He only said that to convince her to leave.

"Well, Monsieur Porthos," Marianne looked up at Porthos, sad to leave, "I thank you for a most wonderful and productive evening."

That insipid intruder! Porthos wished he would disappear and leave them alone. He wanted to pull Marianne to him, to kiss her, to devour her even. But, like an elegantly-decorated pastry, one must first admire with one's eyes and only taste one bit at a time to make it last longer.

He bowed to her, "The pleasure was all mine."

She started following Gerard through the entryway from where she had originally come, when she turned around, "I hope I didn't shock you too much," she called out to Porthos.

Porthos chuckled, "Madame, it takes a great deal more than this to shock me."

She grinned, "Very well, then, I shall have to come up with something more shocking for next time!"

He winked at her and she left. Like a spirit that dissipated into mist, leaving behind a glorious memory.

On the way back, Gerard could not stop reproaching her, but she was lost in a trance, thinking of the events of tonight.

_Porthos…_

She was only able to make out a few words Gerard was saying, "Fraternizing with musketeers", "the Cardinal", "angry", "Rochefort", "cellar", "blond musketeer", "And oh my God, your hair Marianne," He began removing twigs and tidying it up. Not once did Marianne think of her old beau, Maxim. Certainly, _that_ was over.


	6. Dreams and Nightmares

**Chapter 6: Dreams and Nightmares**

The ballroom was now empty, except for the musketeer with the golden hair, who was still dutifully standing at his post, guarding the entryway to the gardens.

Looking around him, Gerard de Villebois noticed that the doors were all locked. There was nothing left to do but to walk over to the handsome young man whom he had been shamelessly staring at all night.

And how could anyone not? With these lustrous voluminous locks that framed his angelic face and descended to his back; the piercing blue eyes as clear and bewitching as the sky on a gorgeous summer day, the fine waist and sculpted body...

The closer he got, the more he noticed the lips of his object of interest. So pink, so full, so beckoning…

The musketeer remained in place, ever so diligent, ever so loyal to duty. But his eyes were watching the advancement of Gerard with anticipation, mixed with curiosity.

Without any introductions, Gerard gently pressed his body onto the musketeer's, took his face in both his hands and plunged himself in the deepest most passionate kiss he'd ever known. Their tongues swirled together, locked in a dance. The musketeer moaned with pleasure. Gerard's hands began to move from Aramis' neck, to the shoulders, resting on the upper back. His tongue began tracing a line from that delicious mouth to the delicate skin of the musketeer's neck, while gently biting him. The musketeer moaned louder, and finally broke that ethereal silence with his plea for what Gerard was so desperately desiring: a union of their bodies. With that melodic voice, "Ah, Gerard, Gerard..." the musketeer's pleas were becoming more insistent, louder and...shriller?

Gerard woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. He had fallen asleep on the hay stack in the stables. He rubbed his eyes and groaned.

"Geraaaaaard."

So, there was a part of that that wasn't a dream.

It sounded like someone was in danger. As he began to regain full consciousness, he realized that the voice belonged to Marianne. She was in distress. Another call rang out and this time, it was suddenly cut short, muffled. Something was wrong. He jumped up and rushed out, dagger in hand. A bad feeling came over him as he ran towards the source of the noise.

Marianne had gone earlier to meet Maxim and end their relationship.

Gerard knew exactly what kind of person Maxim was and what kind of family he came from: wealthy landlords and terrible tyrants. Maxim's father, the Comte de Rameau regularly ordered the beating of his servants and mercilessly killed those who disobeyed him. But it was always done discretely, underhandedly, never to be traced back to him. It wasn't just village folk that he menaced. There were rumors that he had a hand in the assassination of several favorites of the King. But these were just rumors.

As for his son, Maxim was simply a bully, devoid of any feeling of compassion. Like his father, he had a very handsome face and attractive features, and could make himself utterly charming to women.

As children, Maxim and his loyal band of friends would gang up on Gerard, dispensing many insults and offensive remarks. Of all other children they had menaced, Gerard was the only one who unfortunately fulfilled their thirst for senseless violence and degrading others. Growing up, his body was weak, lanky and his manners delicate. In short, a perfect target.

He never quite understood Marianne's attraction to this lunatic. Despite his early warnings to her about Maxim, she was obstinate. There were times when Marianne would come home with bruises, to Gerard's horror. This was usually after a ball when Maxim would have learned or seen Marianne talk or flirt with someone else. Then these symptoms mellowed out as Marianne took to the house more and stopped venturing out as much. On his side, Gerard never had a panache for violence nor took any pleasure in hurting any living creature, not even pests. But if he were to kill anyone in his life, he had reserved that ugly place in his soul for Maxim. Today seemed to present him with this opportunity.

It wasn't too long before Gerard came upon Marianne and Maxim. Maxim had pinned Marianne forcefully to a tree and was beginning to lift up her skirts, his hand brutally traveling up her legs. Gerard jumped on his neck. They recoiled to the ground and fought with fists and punches. Maxim was twice the size of Gerard but he was a brute without any intelligence; he used the force and strength of his body without control or direction. Gerard, on the other hand, had become lean and tall with the years, as well as flexible and agile, muscular in his legs and core. He was also intelligent in battle, able to predict and thwart his opponent's next attacks - skills he had been forced to learn by the unfortunate events that marred his young life. Without great difficulty, he had pinned Maxim face up onto the ground and approached his blade to his opponent's neck. His eyes were consumed by a cold rage and solid hatred. If it weren't for Marianne's pleas, he would have killed him right then and there. Taking advantage of the distraction provided by Marianne, Maxim employed his force to flip Gerard over and, taking out his own dagger, he slashed at Gerard's jaw before running away like the coward that he was.

* * *

Marianne was tending to the gash on Gerard's face.

"Stay still."

He groaned.

"I don't understand you Marianne," he snapped at her. "Tell me once and for all why on earth would you ever be with Maxim."

Marianne stayed silent.

"I know you're not a fool and I know you're not really in love with him, so what is it?" his tone was reproachful, but not unkind.

Unable to stand her mutism, he pushed her hand away from his face and began to rise up when she forced him back by applying her hand on his shoulder.

While still holding the cloth to his face she confessed the truth, "Maxim knows."

He looked at her questioningly.

"Once at a ball, I think I might have had too much wine and I told him," she exhaled, "About all of this. About me, what I do, my work, my uncle. Everything."

She looked down, ashamed.

He shook his head, "Ah, Marianne!" he said with exasperation.

A lump was forming in her throat.

"He gave me his word that he wouldn't tell anyone if I married him," she said, as if defending him.

Gerard angrily took the cloth from her and proceeded to finish cleaning up his wound by himself.

"I never believed he would really tell, nor that I would actually end up marrying him. It was like a game, rather," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"Maxim is a dangerous man," he looked up at her with fiery eyes. "You of all people. How could you be so naïve? So irresponsible? You think everything is a game in life, is that it? You have been privileged your whole life, sheltered, given complete freedom and leeway to do everything you want, to defy social norms and you choose to spend your freedom in frivolity."

He might as well have slapped her in the face. Marianne turned away from him, her countenance rigid, icicles in her stare.

They were silent for a few minutes.

"Listen, there's something I've never told you." Gerard's tone softened.

With a defiant look in his eyes, Gerard took off his chemise. Seeing his bare chest, Marianne recoiled in horror. There, in the middle of his chest, was a large scar in the shape of a cross burnt onto his delicate ivory skin. Gerard was branded.

She dropped onto the seat next to him, "...but who.." she stammered. But Marianne already knew the answer.

"Maxim and his friends" he replied, bitterly.

"When?" She whispered, "We were always together, I would have known…"

"About 8 years ago, when your uncle took you to Noisy-le-Sec for a few days."

He swallowed with difficulty, tears forming in his eyes. All the feelings of shame and guilt simmered to the very edge of his soul.

"I was at the market and they began calling me names, as was their habit," he sniggered. "I was too fragile… too weak. I couldn't face them all at once."

"You were also only 14! Just a boy," exclaimed Marianne, with horror.

"I don't remember much of the events that happened before. But there was a lot of kicking. I was on the ground at some point. Blood, on my face. Then they tied me up onto a tree branch." Hot tears traveled down his cheeks, getting more insistent. He felt like he was suffocating.

Marianne was frozen in terror.

"And then…" He was sobbing profusely now. "One of them had brought a hot metal bar from the smith and…I begged them not…

"Then, they just left me there… like a tossed piece of animal carcass." Gerard was shaking, sobbing heatedly, his body violently heaving up and down, with a force reminiscent of a sick person regurgitating. God knows he felt sick every time he remembered.

Instinctively and without hesitation, Marianne stood up and enveloped him in her arms, her hands holding his head tightly to her chest, hoping she can somehow absorb some of his pain. How could anyone do that? What kinds of monsters were they? How could she have even thought to be married to someone like Maxim? How shameful! How inconsiderate, bringing this bully into the life of the person she loved most. The one who cared for her and protected her all her life. Who nursed her when she was sick, who held her when she was sad, comforted her when she was angry. And she never noticed. She never bothered to ask. How blind was she!

They stayed like this for a while, Gerard alternating between crying out and quietly heaving.

When they broke apart, Marianne bent down, taking his face in her hands.

"Why have you never told me before?" she spoke tenderly.

It took him some time to answer her, but she waited patiently, tenderly caressing her fingers in his golden brown locks. As if drawing strength from the love between them, Gerard admitted the truth out loud for the first time in his life, "I was ashamed, Marianne." His tears flowed anew, silent and urgent.

Marianne shook her head in disbelief.

"I…I thought I was a flaw of nature, an anomaly, a condemned and damned spirit. I didn't understand it, …. I didn't understand who I was. For a time, I believed everything they called me and said about me."

She put her forehead to his. "You know you are always loved no matter what. By me most of all."

He took her hands and kissed them, smiling warmly at her. How he wished he was different sometimes when these rare affectionate moments with Marianne transpired. How he wished he had a desire to kiss her or even to marry her and be a good husband to her. Alas, it seemed that this kind of ordinary life was never meant for him.

Marianne put the back of her hand on her forehead and exhaled deeply, "Maxim is a monster."

"You should have let me kill him."

"Oh, I believe he deserves a worse punishment."

Remembering the assault on Marianne, Gerard noticed blood stains on Marianne's skirt. He had become blind in his rage and hatred that he had forgotten.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He tried."

"How did you manage?"

Marianne smiled mischievously. "I might have picked up a few tricks recently."

"Ah. The musketeer," A smile tugged at the corner of Gerard's mouth

Notably, Marianne's spirits had been high since the ball. Her uncle attributed it to the mere pleasure derived from being included in the privilege of attending such an event, but her thoughts were only full of one person: Porthos. How happy she felt with him. How safe and cherished. Open and adventurous. Just the person she had always wanted to become. In this brief encounter, he seemed to bring out all the best in her, all the good in her. She was Marianne, spirited and uninhibited, playful with a childish innocence, unselfish and tender.

On his side, all Gerard wished for now was for time to turn back and for him to go back to his dream. To that beautiful young musketeer. Those eyes that gleamed with pride yet betrayed so much passion underneath. The thought of what could have happened in the dream had he not woken up was fueling his fantasy.

"I rather like those musketeers," he declared, his humor improving, "I hope we will see them again soon."

* * *

That night, Maxim arrived at his manor, grappling in the darkness of the place. Instinctively, he made his way to the study, where he entered to see a lit fire and the sombre and tall figure of his father standing by the fireplace. His shadow was long and wide, almost covering half the wall behind him.

Knowing the answer to his own question, his father asked dryly, "Did you secure the girl?"

Maxim approached, dizzy, having trouble to keep his balanced. He sneered, "She got away, Father."

His father turned around to look at him, with a gaze full of sheer and utter disgust.

"How useless you are," he continued with the same dry tone. Maxim did nothing but frequent brothels, drink too much, eat too much and attack those who were far weaker and inferior to him just for the fun of it. What a disgrace he was. He had been a disappointment to his father ever since he was born. The child of a hateful and scornful woman, that he married for her wealth. Thankfully she was no longer alive.

"You never fail to remind me, thank you," Maxim grinned at his father, pouring himself a drink from a tray.

With decided steps, the Comte de Rameau walked over to his son, violently slapping him in the face, prompting Maxim to drop his glass. It shattered in a million pieces.

"I should have sent you with the Iron Mask's men at Belle-Isle. I would have been rid of you by now."

He turned around and continued, "Alas, I made the ugly decision of keeping you close by so we can complete other plans. But I see now how useless you are. Even the Iron Mask himself didn't press me to take you. What a disappointment you would have proved to him."

Maxim was rubbing his face, still throbbing with the force of the hit.

"The Iron Mask is dead, Father," he said bitterly, as if to hurt his father with this already-known fact.

"How short-sighted you are. The Iron Mask may be dead but he was only one part of a bigger organization that cannot be extinguished so easily."

Maxim scoffed.

Ignoring him, his father continued, "In any case, I heard at the ball that Cardinal Richelieu has announced a convention for notable inventors from all over France. The Comte de Dandurand and his niece will be there, I am sure of it. I am also sure that he will be showcasing his special "weapon" to the Cardinal. We will strike then."

"You want to kill the Comte de Dandurand?"

"No, we need him alive for this."

"Then what about the girl?"

"Her too, but only for a time."

"So, what do you plan to do to her after you've completed your mission?"

His father turned to him sharply, "Don't tell me you're sentimental."

Maxim had a dark smile on his face. "Far from it, Father. I simply would like to be the one orchestrating her pitiful end."


	7. The Convention Part I

**Chapter 6: The Convention Part I**

The two musketeers were marching side by side, discussing their task and going over their checklist one last time, when the blond musketeer nudged her companion and nodded her head in the direction of two individuals who were making their way towards them.

The sounds of heels clicked on the cold stone as the two pairs of friends approached each other. Gerard's heart skipped a beat upon seeing the musketeer who had been occupying his thoughts and dreams during the past month since the ball.

As for his companion, Marianne seemed to contain her enthusiasm quite well. The glee she felt inside upon seeing Porthos quickly dissipated. Her heart was racing. In fact, she almost dreaded to see the pair coming towards them. What if he had forgotten her? Worse, what if he had found her boring or lacking? What if her own feelings were born out of a silly juvenile fantasy that was undoubtedly comical to men like Porthos? Porthos was a musketeer and musketeers were notorious for their conquests. Unlike all the men she knew in her village and around, Porthos was a real man – a man of the world. He was someone who had seen things, had done things, had experienced so much from life that went beyond what Marianne herself could dream of. And who was _she_? Despite the pride Marianne felt in her little defiance of engaging in activities reserved for men, namely, those of scientific discovery and invention, she was still a simple and sheltered provincial girl. If anything, the incident of Maxim and the following revelation of Gerard had taught her that for all her extensive knowledge of the natural world, her knowledge of people and their behaviour was quite limited.

An electrifying tension settled down like a thick fog onto these four individuals in the first few seconds of their meeting. Her curiosity piqued since their last encounter; Aramis' gaze instantly went to the stranger who wouldn't stop staring at her at the ball. Seeing him in broad daylight, she was struck by how attractive he was. His face was of perfect proportions with a chiseled jawline. His skin an ivory beige, enhanced by the sun. His hair was a light brown with significant golden streaks that were accentuated by the light falling on it through the nearby window. There was a hint of a scar on his face that him made look all the more rugged. His eyes, a deep and bewitching green, were like an untold mystery waiting to be discovered. He met her gaze with such intensity that took her breath away.

At last, his lovely musketeer! He faintly smiled at her, making her blush.

Porthos broke the tension with one of his big warm smiles, "Comtesse!" he bowed slightly, taking Marianne's hand and lightly depositing a kiss. Marianne felt a rush of excitement at this gesture.

She turned to Aramis, with an outstretched hand, "Monsieur Aramis, I don't believe I thanked you properly for your assistance at the ball." Marianne smiled coyly. Aramis returned her smile, taking her hand in a gesture of acknowledgment. Noticing Aramis' gaze quickly shift to Gerard, Marianne said:

"Ah. Allow me to introduce Gerard de Villebois. Aside from helping us at home, he also assists my uncle in his work. He will be assisting my uncle with his exhibition today."

Gerard bowed his head.

"Are you on duty, messieurs?" Marianne inquired.

"Indeed. We have just completed our reconnaissance of the Cardinal's residence. The King will be attending the convention and we were sent to ensure that all is in order," replied Aramis.

Porthos leaned in and whispered, "Especially after what happened the last time the King was at Richelieu's residence."

Aramis jabbed Porthos in the ribs, "Porthos!"

"You see, it is here where the Iron Mask and his accomplices substituted the King for Prince Philippe," Porthos elaborated, ignoring Aramis. He wanted to satisfy the intrigue that dominated Marianne's features.

Marianne gasped. Encouraged by her reaction, Porthos nodded knowingly and proceeded to recount the events of the Iron Mask's plot to substitute the King for his twin brother, Prince Philippe, whom the Iron Mask had kidnapped and held captive for many long years in preparation for his plot.

Meanwhile, Gerard and Aramis continued to exchange probing glances, each one intrigued by the other but for differing reasons.

"…and that was when d'Artagnan arrested the Iron Mask." Aramis was amused as she watched Marianne's face transform from its initial reserve to being thoroughly animated as Porthos' story unfolded. For some unexplained reason, she felt such tenderness for the young woman at that moment.

"Well, what happened next?" Marianne asked passionately, prompting chuckles from the whole group.

"Marianne, perhaps Monsieur Porthos can oblige us to continue this later. We must get to the convention hall," reminded her Gerard.

"Ah yes. We were just leaving our chambers to get there," she pointed to where they had come from.

"Ah, then that makes your chambers the last place on our reconnaissance list. If you'll permit us, Comtesse?" inclined Aramis.

"Certainly. Actually, Gerard is quite the sleuth. He did his own reconnaissance of the place when we were here last for the King's Ball. He has a talent for uncovering secret doors and chambers with his very nose!" she teased.

Marianne looked at Gerard, encouragingly. It dawned on him what Marianne was trying to do. Very well, he'll seize this opportunity to be alone with his musketeer.

"I am thoroughly at your service, Monsieur Aramis," he said, bowing to the blond musketeer.

Was Aramis losing her mind under the spell of this young man's penetrating gaze, or did this simple courtesy feel like a subtle sultry insinuation? She found herself deeply blushing as an image of their nude bodies moving together violated her thoughts. _Shame on you, Aramis_! What would Athos think? Shaking her head and regaining control over her mind, she was about to decline. And yet… given their failure the last time they were investigating the Cardinal's residence, this inventor's assistant might prove useful, after all. She'll keep an eye on him, just in case.

"Very well," Aramis agreed. "Porthos, I'll manage on my own. It won't do to have a lady walk unescorted to the convention." She winked at him as she walked away with Gerard by her side.

"Certainly not," Porthos faked incredulousness. "Madame." He offered Marianne his arm and she gladly took it.

* * *

They walked slowly arm in arm. His grip was firm yet gentle. His scent of pine and rosemary, so fresh and masculine, flooded her senses, further augmenting her attraction to him.

Despite her simpler dress today: a frock one third the size of the one she wore at the ball, of a delicate pastel peach color that contrasted with her auburn her, she looked exquisite and seductive. Without the big skirts and the exaggerated corset, Porthos could admire the real form of her body. For her young age, Marianne had a generous bosom, round and full, accentuated by a slender waist and complimented by perfectly proportionate hips.

They talked breezily, occasionally interrupted by laughter. Marianne looked so radiant, so beautiful when she laughed. Her eyes turned into half moons, framed with adorable wrinkles. Her whole face lit up and her cheeks would turn the color of raspberries, especially when she laughed spiritedly. And she had so much spirit.

There was an easy companionship between them. But did she feel anything more for him? Or was it just a newfound friendship for her?

He stopped, disengaging from her gently.

"I have something for you."

He pulled out a long object, wrapped in black velvet.

"Oh?" she said, surprised.

Porthos began to unwrap the velvet tissue. There was something sensual in the way his fingers delicately handled the tissue. Marianne bit her lip, trying to redirect her mind to the present moment.

As the tissue came fully undone, Marianne gasped; her mouth falling wide open. It was the most elegant and deadly-looking dagger she had ever seen. From its unimpeded shimmer, the metal looked like it was newly hammered. The helm was engraved with golden patterns and the blade itself looked ever so sharp and precise.

"I thought you needed something better," he began, "I'd feel safe knowing you're not using a butter knife as a dagger. Think of the suffering you would inflict on the person you would stab with that," Porthos whistled.

Marianne beamed. Not only did Porthos remember her, but he thought of her to the point of gifting her something reminiscent of their only memory together.

She had the look of a child who had just been given a brand-new toy for Christmas. Porthos laughed at her and shook his head: everything he knew about women and what they liked has changed drastically over the last few years. From Aramis' whole history, to Constance's unexpected adventurous and fearless spirit. And now this.

"May I attach it?" he said, gesturing to her leg. She swallowed and nodded.

He placed the dagger in its sheath and produced some leather straps from his habit. He kneeled down on his knees and slowly lifted up her skirts, exposing her legs. Marianne held her skirts so they don't impede him.

His palm encircled her calf, sending shockwaves through her body. His fingers traced around the leather strap as he fastened it onto her calf, dagger facing outwards to the side. Ever the gentleman, Porthos' hands remained in their designated vicinity, whereas Marianne's fantasy took them upwards, making them caress her thighs, and travel further up and up…The area between her thighs was thirsty for his touch, she could feel herself getting warmer. My God, if this was only from touching one small part of her, what would happen to her if he touched her elsewhere? Marianne was now blushing crimson – she fanned her face with her hand. Thankfully, Porthos' head was obscured by her skirt, so he couldn't see her face.

Porthos was smiling to himself. He could definitely feel Marianne's body gently reverberating under his touch, as her breath got shallower. Was she uncomfortable or enjoying this? Or could this just be the reaction of any woman being touched by a man she hardly knew?

"Voila!" he said, looking up at her, patting the dagger on her leg. Marianne bent over to get a better look, lifting her skirts a bit more. Porthos glimpsed the outline of her thighs, curvy and delicious! She placed her hand on the dagger. He covered her hand with his, as he proceeded to show her the proper way to pull on the helm and place it back in. A gentle in-and-out movement that their hands repeated for a minute or so. He was no longer smiling, his breathing becoming heavier. Their gaze locked in such an intensity. Absent-mindedly, she took his hand and pulled him up.

They stood so close to each other, their eyes exchanging a shared desire and passion. All Porthos wanted to do was to pull her by the waist and eliminate the remaining distance between them in a passionate kiss. He could see her chest move up and down with anticipation. He leaned in slightly a bit closer, holding both her hands in his. She didn't pull away.

Porthos pasued. While Marianne's desire burned, her body seemed to be frozen in place.

Alas, this wasn't to be the moment he had hoped for. Having glimpsed her frigid nature a few times, Porthos can now tell that Marianne needed to feel a sense of safety, a certain trust, before completely abandoning her reserve and self-preserving guard, which now seemed to be back in place, standing in the way of their exchange. Certainly, they hadn't known each other long enough to allow for such a trust, but their dynamic felt ever so natural and familiar. No matter, this didn't bother him. Porthos smiled at her with tenderness. In this moment, he realized that Marianne was not a conquest. She was like a wild animal that you approach carefully, whom you want to observe and keep by your side but never contain or domesticate. He did not want to scare her, or mar her.

To him, she was too precious. She had an innocence about her that he wanted to protect ever since he saw her in the gardens. He disengaged one hand from hers and, still maintaining her gaze, tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

Marianne turned away, with a disdainful look on her face, eliciting alarm from Porthos.

He was resolved in his caring intentions that he hadn't considered the possibility of injuring her pride or hurting her feelings. What if she felt rejected? He reproached himself, he should have just kissed her, damn it! To his relief, the source of Marianne's sudden change in countenance made itself known.

Down the hall towards the entrance, some voices carried through towards them. Two he recognized as the Cardinal and Rochefort.

She looked like a child whose dessert was prematurely taken away from him, "I had completely forgotten that the Comte de Rochefort is to accompany me again to the convention." She squeezed on his hand. Porthos looked at her warmly. _Rochefort, again_. From what he heard from Aramis, he had actually behaved himself when Marianne had returned to the ball. He liked to think he had something to do with that.

"If Rochefort attempts anything…," murmured Porthos menacingly. Marianne looked up at him and smiled. Although he didn't kiss her, she was sure that Porthos cared for her. But did he only care as a friend? Or perhaps he was doing the gentlemanly thing and she was presumptuous?

"In any case, we are stationed at the convention hall this time since the King will arrive soon."

Marianne's features brightened at the thought of having him around throughout the event.

He offered her his arm again, "Now, allow me to escort you to your uncle."

As they got closer, she glanced at him and said, "You know, I am in such a great mood I rather think I shall be nice to the Comte this time." Porthos chuckled.


	8. The Convention Part II: Suspicions

**Author's note:**

In the anime, there were several cool and interesting inventions that played a major role in the plot. There was a submarine, modeled after Da Vinci's plans, there were a few gliders that enabled Milady to fly off rooftops, and there was an interesting-looking sword that Manson used and the big machine that was used to substitute the King's bed and make him disappear. Not to mention all the secret rooms and trapdoors. Notably, the secret chamber the Iron Mask used to gain access to the Cardinal's residence and substitute the King.  
Just as a reminder, Cardinal Richelieu contracted Mason the Merchant (an accomplice of the Iron Mask) to renovate his residence for him to welcome the King for a ball. It was during these renovations that Manson and the Iron Mask built these secret rooms and installed this machinery.  
These inventions inspired a great deal of this story. It all started by the simple question of: who made those inventions and why? What relationship did they have to the Cardinal or to the Iron Mask's people and Milady?  
By expanding on those questions, I came up with the Comte de Dandurand as the inventor responsible for all the inventions in the anime and of course, his niece who secretly helps him.  
In the BBC's the Musketeers S2E3 we meet an inventor whose daughter, Samara, is an intellectual young girl who forms a bond with Porthos. Their bond in the show was platonic and brotherly but I did wonder what would happen if they had fallen in love.  
And so, this inspired the character of Marianne, the inventor's niece, who becomes Porthos' love interest. Her personality is heavily inspired by another fictional character from French literature, Claudine (by the author Colette).  
I also thought it would be interesting to pair Porthos up with someone who is intelligent and defied the gender norms of the 17th century.  
I hope I remained as historically faithful as possible to the inventions and discoveries that were present during that period of time. Please feel free to point out any discrepancies.

**Chapter 8: The Convention Part II: Suspicions**

Despite his initial recoil at the sight of his charge being escorted by none other than the musketeer Porthos, Rochefort's spirits soon returned when Marianne greeted him with a genuine warmth. His spirits were further lifted upon seeing the envious look of the men in the convention hall as they laid eyes on the young woman he was escorting. Indeed, Marianne looked ravishing and delicious, Rochefort had remarked to himself. None of that haughty attitude she had given him the last time he saw her. Even the conversation between them flowed easily and he found in Marianne an intelligent companion. He was pleasantly surprised and intrigued.

While the convention hall was packed, the atmosphere was nowhere near as intimidating and stifling as what Marianne had experienced at the ball. Here, Marianne recognized some people as friends of her uncle's. The lively scientific and philosophical discussions emanating from groups here and there, as well as the display of the most recent and exciting inventions, put Marianne right in her element.

As they walked through the convention, Marianne was marveling at everything and stopping to read every descriptive plaque while carefully examine the work. Rochefort was becoming restless and annoyed: it was like escorting one of his mistresses to the jeweller's.

"Mademoiselle Marianne," a familiar raspy voice startled Marianne. Her eyes widened with horror as she turned around to face the stranger. Rochefort felt her grip on his arm tighten, her nails digging into his skin. He flinched slightly.

"May I introduce the Comte de Rameau?" She swallowed with difficulty, "He comes from a neighbouring estate to ours," Marianne said in a monotonous tone. In the same tone, Marianne introduced Rochefort.

Rochefort stiffened. So, this was the famous Comte de Rameau. Rochefort had conducted investigations into this person after the events of the Iron Mask. Several accounts described Rameau as being an accomplice of the Iron Mask in private and a supporter of Manson the Merchant in public. In other words, he was an enemy to the Cardinal and hence, to Rochefort himself. In fact, Rochefort had seen his name on some documents at Manson's house after they raided it but could not find enough evidence to incriminate him. But what was he doing here and by whose invitation?

Glancing suggestively at their linked arms, he said coolly, "You move quick, I see."

Rochefort could feel Marianne's heart pounding and reverberating through her being. This man seemed to illicit a hateful reaction. Rochefort held Marianne up more forcefully, as if to keep her upright and reassure her.

Rameau gave Marianne a most disdainful look before addressing Rochefort, "You see, the Mademoiselle on your arm was engaged to my son not too long ago."

What manners! Even Rochefort himself was shocked.

"We were never engaged!" Marianne shot at him, "I could never engage myself to someone like your son. He's nothing but a brute."

"How dare you?" he hissed at Marianne. Then, turning to Rochefort, "Are you in the habit of letting your women speak out of place, Sir?"

To Rameau's surprise, Rochefort let out a loud laugh.

"I find it rather charming, in fact." And with a more serious face, "and it's _Comtesse_ to you, Sir. Now, should you feel the need to address the _Comtesse_ at any point during this event or otherwise, you may only do so with my strict permission and within my presence. Otherwise," Rochefort gestured to his sword.

Rameau sneered, "Are you threatening me, Rochefort?"

"Merely reminding you of your place."

Angrily, Rameau stormed off. _So, Paul-Francois de Dandurand has managed to secure his niece by attaching her to this insipid bastard who was the Cardinal's pet. Very well, then._

Before Rochefort could ask or think anything, the hall quieted down with the announcement of the King's arrival by the trumpeters.

* * *

The King was flanked by his twin brother, Prince Phillippe, Cardinal Richelieu, Captain of the Musketeers, Monsieur de Treville, and his top three musketeers. Their procession first landed on the exhibition of Marianne's uncle. By that time, Gerard had also reappeared at her uncle's side, without Marianne's notice.

"You remember the Comte de Dandurand and his niece, the Comtesse Marianne de Dandurand from the ball, Your Majesty," the Cardinal whispered to the King.

"Indeed, a close friend of yours, Cardinal." Then, addressing the Comte, "I am surprised that your niece honors us with her presence at such an event. I rather think it is not as exciting as a ball."

The Comte bowed, his face reddening, "Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty, my niece has no other family and it would not do to leave such a young woman on her own in the country."

"Indeed," The King applauded the Comte's sensibility.

The Comte began his presentation describing and explaining the several items he had on display. Both the King and Prince were impressed, pausing here and there to pose questions and give their compliments.

"We found something you must see," Athos had appeared at Rochefort's side and whispered to him. Rochefort glanced at Marianne and back at Athos. Athos understood.

"Aramis, Porthos." He called to his comrades. Rochefort excused himself away, leaving her in the care of the two musketeers. For once, he didn't mind, pleased to be taken away to a task that was more natural and exciting to him than being in this boring place.

Before the procession detached from the Comte de Dandurand's exhibition, two things caught Aramis' attention: a model of a glider very similar to what she had seen Milady use, and an all-too familiar sketch of a submarine.

The musketeers and Marianne stood a few paces away from the King's party as it went around the exhibitions. They came upon a crowd at whose center stood an inventor explaining a new model to a group of his peers. Marianne put out her fan and whispered to her companions, "He's wrong. The laws of physics recently described by Monsieur Galileo Galilei do not permit an object of the size he is describing to drift from far its origin. His hypothesis is thus nullified. I bet you that man by the post there will be the one presenting this argument."

Surely enough, not long after Marianne said that, the man she had pointed to ventured an argument that exactly matched what Marianne had said. She grinned triumphantly to herself. The two men subsequently engaged in a public debate. Meanwhile, Marianne kept turning to her companions, accurately giving them her predictions of the next argument down to the last equation.

Porthos and Aramis were both baffled and amused. As they continued to walk around, Marianne would explain to them discretely how certain instruments and machines functioned and the natural laws on which they were built. This included the refractory telescope, the steam turbine, a submarine, star charts and new discoveries of planets.

As she spoke, she was animated in the same way Porthos was when he talked about food, Aramis remarked.

"Comtesse de Dandurand!" an elderly gentleman standing next to his exhibition called out to Marianne. It was a close friend of her uncle's whom she had known from childhood. She went over to greet him. Aramis turned to Porthos, "Did you notice that, as the Comte's assistance, Gerard doesn't seem to say much? As if he doesn't know as much as an assistant should?"

They both turned in the direction of the Comte de Dandurand's exhibition. Gerard was standing by the Comte, his face ever so serious, his back straight. He had the makings of a solider, Aramis thought. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixated on some obscure point on the wall.

"What do you mean to say?" Porthos squinted at Aramis. But he already knew. She inclined her head suggestively towards Marianne, who was deeply engaged in conversation with the elderly man.

"So?" Porthos said, defiantly. "Marianne has a secret. A double identity, perhaps. Who doesn't? And _you're_ one to judge!" he whispered.

She smiled at him.

"And stop looking at Gerard like that!"

"Like what?" she was taken aback.

"Like you're devouring him with your eyes."

Aramis was indignant. Yes, Gerard was physically attractive, but he was also intriguing and mysterious beyond the physical sense. She couldn't help but be drawn to was a look of sadness and melancholy in his eyes that she recognized all too well. She couldn't help but feel that he was hiding a terrible secret. His fixation on her also piqued her. Did he know the truth about her?

"I'm merely observing." She responded through clenched teeth. "And anyway, you've been too wrapped up with your new interests to notice that her uncle had the same instruments Richelieu and Milady had used once upon a time. I saw the glider and the submarine plans. Remember those?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But it doesn't mean anything. He's a close friend of the Cardinal so it's natural that he would contract him. It wasn't his fault the submarine was stolen by the Iron Mask in the end."

"Yes, but…"

She grabbed him by the arm so as to move him out of earshot, "Gerard seemed to know a lot about the Cardinal's residence."

"Aramis," Porthos groaned, "They stayed at the Cardinal's residence during the ball and he seems to really care about Marianne and her uncle so he went and did what any good and loyal servant would do: ensure their safety." While Aramis always admired Porthos' unrivaled ability to see the best in people, it sometimes annoyed her.

She retaliated, "I can't imagine that they had that much time for him to discover all of that. He seemed too familiar with the secret passageways." She paused and lowered her voice more, "We even came upon the secret chamber the Iron Mask used, the one we've been trying to find for months."

_So that's where Athos had taken Rochefort. And probably d'Artagnan was there too. _Porthos nodded to himself.

"I mean, can we trust them?" Aramis said, imploringly. Yes, Marianne was lovely and smart and lively. Yes, she wanted Porthos to be happy, but what did they really know about her? And what was Gerard hiding?

Porthos glanced in the direction of Marianne. His heart skipped a beat to see her laugh, ever so carelessly, so gleefully. But Aramis was right, they needed to be on their guard.

Seeing Porthos grimace, Aramis wanted to lighten the mood, "Did you give her the present?"

At the memory he shared with Marianne, Porthos smiled warmly and nodded.

"Did she like it?"

He grinned.

* * *

Gerard had been looking forward to alone time with Aramis. That glorious soldier with the unmistakable scent of vanilla and lilac. But their journey through the Cardinal's residence took a rather grave and unexpected turn: the discovery of the Iron Mask's secret chamber. It was all by accident. Having read many books on the subject and designed a few with the Comte de Dandurand, Gerard knew which fixtures to look for in a given room that could lead to a secret passageway.

He didn't think much of what he was doing, simply going by the few passageways he had discovered last time and then relying on instinct. He only cared to impress the musketeer.

But then, in the bedroom that had once been designated for the King, he glanced around until his eyes rested on a tile on the wall next to the bed. To the untrained eye, it looked unremarkable, but to someone of his experience, it was certainly a fake. He removed it and unravelled a couple of metal pipes which he immediately recognized as signalling pipes. With his knowledge on which floors can house secret chambers, he was able to trace the pipes all the way down to the basement, where he found the fixture he was looking for and pressed it to uncover the chamber.

The ease with which he solved this difficult puzzle troubled him. Yes, he was good and trained, but not _that_ good. This oddly felt like something he had done before. As if he had seen the outlines of this house before, as if… when they entered the chamber, Gerard wasn't shocked by what he saw, rather by the realization that the map of the Cardinal's residence was internalized in his head. He had spent many nights poring over it without knowing to which owner it belongs.

Upon seeing that machine that was used to exchange the beds and put Prince Philippe in place of King Louis, all of his doubts were confirmed. He looked pale and his palms were beginning to sweat. Not even the warm touch of Aramis on his shoulder consoled him.

It had to do with that woman who came to the Comte a few years ago. The woman with the jade-green eyes. The Comte seemed completely taken and mesmerized by her. Gerard had an uneasy feeling about it at the time, but she provided them with a generous sum so the Comte agreed to the project. He told Gerard and Marianne that it was for a lady who was having an affair and she wanted to hide it from her husband. Is that what the lady himself had told him? Did the Comte know what he had created and to whom he had created it? But surely, being a close friend of the Cardinal, the Comte would recognize the floor plan of the Cardinal's house when the lady had given it to him? No, in fact, he must have recognized it because he had a plan from when he built a few things for the Cardinal many years ago. This one was of the renovated residence.

Too many questions ran in Gerard's his mind. One thing he was sure about was that this place and this event wreaked with something sinister. Maybe even the musketeers can't be trusted. He needed to tell Marianne. They needed to be on their guard.


	9. Fantasies

**Chapter 9: Fantasies**

Aramis found herself in the Iron Mask's secret chamber, down in the cellars of the Cardinal's residence. She was sent to inspect it and had brought Gerard along to examine the machinery. He was dressed in a loose chemise that was half open, revealing his bare chest. She watched him with a mesmerised fixation as he nimbly moved from one side of the equipment to the other, bending down or stretching up to inspect something. Then with such agility, he jumped off the platform and landed quietly on the floor.

He walked towards her decidedly, wiping his hands on his chemise, which exposed a part of his lower abdomen. His chest was perfectly sculpted to the point that his lower abdominal muscles looked like they were continuing downwards, to a delicious place that was hidden under his culotte.

Aramis swallowed with difficulty as he finally approached her. "I think we can easily trace this back to whoever built it," he said in that soft tone of his. She tried to reply, to say something useful but hard as she tried, nothing would come out. Instead, she couldn't look anywhere else but at his beautiful face. She was completely lost in his eyes. He gave her a tender smile and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She stiffened.

"You're beautiful," he exhaled, getting closer, tracing his thumb on her cheeks and then on her lips. "Such burdens you carry with you," he said, as if he could look into her very soul.

He then took her hands in his and kissed them sensually, the warmth of his lips lingering on her skin, sending electricity all throughout her body. He brought her hands to closer inspection, "Such delicacy. How many tribulations you must have faced for this immense sacrifice you've done for the one you loved." His voice was so ethereal, so surreal, as if it belonged to someone else.

He walked backwards towards the platform, drawing her along. She did not protest or resist. He sat down on the edge of the platform, still holding on to her hands. "What do you say we take off the masks now? I think you'll find you and I have a lot in common."

His gaze was burning with intensity. His hands began detaching her habit, which quickly fell to the floor. Aramis was still frozen in place. What was she doing? Why couldn't she stop this or move? What about Athos? How can she betray him like this? What would happen if –

"Ahh," she moaned. How did her culottes come off so fast? She looked down at herself and found that she was completely nude all of a sudden. What kind of delicious magic was this? Gerard's fingers had traveled up her thighs and were now gently caressing her sex. She was still standing up, facing him. She looked down at him; he was equally nude. Everything about his body was pure perfection. From his chiseled face, to his lean taut legs, to what was in between them! Just the sight of it excited her more.

His fingers continued to move around her pleasure points with such dexterity. She moaned and grabbed his shoulders tightly. How shameful! How can she let him do this to her? She barely knew him! And Athos! Oh, Athos! But what can she do now? She couldn't run, couldn't move.

Her moans became louder, more insistent. Then, to her disappointment, he stopped. He stood up facing her, passion burning in his eyes, as his lips locked with hers with such potency that she had never known except with Athos.

But Gerard's lips were different. He was gentle and rogue at the same time, he knew exactly where to touch her, exactly what she liked and where she liked it. He knew where to take his tongue inside her mouth, starting from the corner of her mouth, then licking her lips and finishing with a gentle bite on her lower lip before letting go and starting all over again.

His tongue traced a warm line on her neck, down to her breasts, where he swirled his tongue around before zeroing in on the nipple and gently biting it. She groaned with such pleasure! Her body was under his spell; he controlled everything. A fire burned in between her legs and her knees were starting to give way - she could no longer hold herself up. He put his arm around her waist to stabilize her as he sat back on the platform and placed her on his lap facing him, her legs on either side of him. As he continued to kiss her breasts, his hand slid down between her legs again. She moaned louder. He felt her body reverberate; she was close, he knew, very close, but he didn't want her to come just yet. And then, swiftly he replaced his hand with his own sex, which sent a shockwave of a double orgasm as it filled her up. She almost screamed with pleasure.

He sunk his teeth into her neck and then placed his head on her shoulder, as her golden locks engulfed him. He thrusted her so insistently, "Ahh, Aramis! Aramis..." he groaned.

His groans were getting louder and louder, he was close, she could tell.

"ARAMIS!"

Suddenly, a very sharp pain radiated from her stomach, causing a lump of phlegm to come up in her chest as she woke up with a choking cough. She was hyperventilating, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. The blurriness she experienced began to subside when she saw no one other than her comrade Porthos standing right next to her. There was no one else in the room.

She grabbed her abdomen with her arm and hurled at him, "What the hell was that?"

"Well, I had to do _something_," Porthos retorted. He was looking down at her with an expression of curiosity and disgust, his hands on his hips.

Slowly and groaning, she got up to her feet and looked around. They were in the servants' courtyard, waiting to take their night shift and she had decided to take a nap beforehand.

She shot daggers at Porthos and punched him in the stomach. Her punches rarely affected the giant and this one was particularly weak. "There are other ways to wake people up, Porthos!" she yelled at him, "You don't have to be a brute."

Now she was just insulting him. He towered over her and with an irate voice, "You weren't waking up, Sleeping Beauty."

They stared at each other angrily.

"Moreover, I didn't feel it was my place to be the one entertaining the obscene noises you were making!" he shot at her.

Aramis' eyes widened; her cheeks turned a very dark shade of red. Oh no. Her dream had spilled over to reality and Porthos was there to receive it. She was mortified. She put her hand to her face, as if to hide it. Not to mention that someone could have heard her and discovered her identity. Could the ground open and swallow her?

Seeing her embarrassment, Porthos backed away and chuckled, "You're worse than any of Madame Chabot's girls. My respect to Athos," he winked at her.

She rolled her eyes. Normally, she would have been beyond insulted to be compared to a prostitute, but she felt she deserved it. What business did she have fantasizing about someone other than Athos? Besides, if the noises she was making were anything close to what was in the dream and Porthos had heard her, then he was right. She couldn't argue with that.

"Is it time for our shift?" she said, trying to change the subject.

"It is," Porthos said, heading out the door, adjusting his sword.

She smoothed out her clothes, tidied her hair and began walking with her comrade.

He stopped. "I'm stationed around the guest chamber grounds and you'll be taking the servants' ground, remember? It's that way" he said, pointing to the other direction, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Right, of course. See you in the morning?"

Porthos nodded slowly.

"It _was_ Athos, wasn't it?" he called back to her.

She turned around, "Hmm?"

"The dream?" Porthos pursued.

"Oh, of course it was," she said with a wide smile and left before he could say anything else.

Porthos sighed and shook his head. He knew Athos was good with women but not_ that_ good. Anyway, Aramis was a grown woman who was just discovering herself after long years of celibacy and being disguised as a man. What was wrong with a little crush? It was harmless.

He smiled to himself, put on his hat and walked to his post. He had his own fantasies to think about anyway. Even though he won't see Marianne tonight, his patrol will take him just outside her window. The thought of her sleeping peacefully in bed gave filled him with warmth. The thought of her in bed altogether made him feel excited. Better yet, the thought of him in bed _with_ her, while he made love to her and made her moan to the degree just demonstrated by Aramis? That was heavenly! Marianne had such a tantalizing body and he longed to discover it, to know it, to touch her and kiss her everywhere, to become one with her.

But then his thoughts took a turn they had never taken before: how nice would it be to come home to Marianne, have a lavish dinner with lively conversation, hear her laughter as he told his stories and then spend the night making love to her until they were both exhausted and she fell asleep in his arms? There, he would keep her safe, loved, protected…

_… Loved? _

No, Porthos doesn't "_fall in love_". That was something Athos and Aramis did and look where it took them in their lives. No, Porthos lived for the moment, for the pleasures of life. It was only that he took pride in assuming the role of Marianne's protector, her guardian.

And yet…

Ever since he met that young woman, he wasn't able to stop thinking about her, to think of ways to impress her, to come up with excuses to be around her. Sometimes, he just wanted to be in her company, to enjoy the pleasures of life _with_ her. Is that what Athos and Aramis had together?

He shook his head and attempted to think of something else.

* * *

The fresh air helped clear Aramis' stormy mind, bringing some calm to her. What was wrong with her? After Francois, she never thought she could love again. For years, she felt alone, hiding her femininity, unable to get close to anyone. She thought her fate was sealed, that it was a done deal. But then… Athos. How she loved Athos! So why was this happening? How could she be fantasizing and dreaming of someone else? There was something about Gerard that destabilized her. As if he knew something about her, as if he understood her deepest darkest secrets.

Aramis suddenly froze. The hairs on her arms perked up. She could feel someone hiding in the vicinity, watching her. Her hand automatically moved to her sword. She took a few steps forward before turning around abruptly at the sound of a rustle.

But there was no one there. She exhaled: it was only the leaves of a tree.

She turned back to continue on her path when she came face to face with a hooded stranger who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. She let out a cry and almost fell back, losing her balance. Reflexively, she elbowed him and pulled out her sword. The two engaged in combat. Not long after, Aramis realized that the stranger was unarmed. But why was he attacking an armed soldier without a weapon? She put her sword away.

He succeeded in either blocking or avoiding all of her blows and kicks. In the dark, she could hear him chuckle every time he managed to do so, as if it amused him. He was quick and nimble and he fought like he was doing a waltz. He kept disappearing and she didn't know where to look, so the force of her punches was wasted on blocks of empty space that the stranger had occupied only seconds ago. He anticipated her movements with such rapidity. Aramis had never faced an adversary who was as skilled in the art of suppleness and agility as this stranger. Yet something about him felt familiar.

Enough play, she was on duty and this was clearly an intruder. If she was unable to catch him so far, she will have to up her game. She drew her sword and began slashing at him, only to be met with thin air. Suddenly, she felt a jab on the inside of her wrist that was holding the sword. A nerve was pinched and an electric pain shot up through her arm, weakening her grip. She cried out as the dark figure kicked her arm, causing her to drop her sword. But it seemed that he wasn't satisfied with disarming her. She quickly found herself imprisoned within a strong pair of arms, holding her from under her own arms, securing her like a tight belt and keeping her arms to the side, unable to move. She was about to kick but the stranger had pinned her legs forcefully with his, entangling their legs together, completely paralyzing her. She was trapped, helpless.

His breath was so close to her neck. "Relax, I don't want to hurt to you," the stranger whispered. There was something intoxicating about his voice. Aramis could feel him inhale the scent of her hair. The warmth and grip of his body felt dangerously arousing. She knew exactly who it was now.

He let her go and she barely moved, merely bringing her arms and legs back to her body and under her control.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, still mute.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were a stranger but then when I saw it was you, I just couldn't resist," he had a sheepish smile on his face that was hard to resist.

She straightened up and picked up her sword, putting it back in it sheath.

Coolly she said to him, "You shouldn't be here."

Gerard was abashed. "I… I couldn't sleep. I thought some fresh air would do me good."

He put his hands in his pockets. He looked troubled. Now was her chance to ask him all her questions, to interrogate him. But all she could do was stare at his body, and visions from her dream flooded back to the front of her memory. _No! Think of Athos! Think of your duty!_

She didn't react in time. Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Gerard turned around to leave, "I had better get back, then. Thank you for the dance." He smiled and turned away.

"Wait, Gerard," she said in a low but determined voice.

He turned back to her, still smiling, his gaze intense as always. The moon came out from behind the clouds and she could see his face.

"I wanted to ask you about..." she was rudely interrupted when Gerard suddenly pushed her behind some bushes before jumping on top of her. _What the-!_ He pinned her down, resting his finger gently on her lips, "Shh! Someone's coming."

Sure enough, two strangers came out from the corner and stood close to the bushes.

"It's safe here, no one can hear us. The Red Guard are not very thorough in their responsibility," said one of the two voices. _Of course they weren't_, thought Aramis, _that's why _I'm_ here instead_. She almost reflexively got up when Gerard pushed her down, a warning look on his face, "Wait," he whispered.

The other man sniggered.

"All is set, then?" said a raspy voice. _The Comte de Rameau! What was he doing here_, Gerard thought?

"It is, everything will be carried out on the last day of the convention. Did you speak with the Comte de Dandurand?"

"Soon," replied Rameau.

"Very well. I'll wait for your signal, then."

"Excellent. Oh and, Marcheaux? I want this to be quick and quiet, understood? Like old times. None of the theatrics from the last year or so."

"Understood."

The two men separated, each walking in the opposite direction.

Gerard and Aramis waited a few minutes before Gerard poked his head up, his lower body pressing on Aramis'. She could feel his bulge. He can't possibly be aroused! For all _he_ knew, she was a man. It must just be the muscular contractions she felt, after all, he was at an awkward angle. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, willing herself not to have anymore indecent thoughts.

"They're gone," he said, sitting up on her. He lingered a bit before he stood up and extended a hand to her. She hesitated but then took it, they stood close together, their breath mingling. How he wanted to kiss those lips, to put Aramis back on the ground and take him right then and there. If it wasn't for what they just witnessed, Gerard would not have hesitated. Unfortunately, his worries clouded his excitement at this moment.

Aramis walked around, inspecting the grounds, Gerard trailing behind her.

"One of the voices was familiar to me," he told her. "It was the Comte de Rameau without any doubt. I can recognize his malevolent voice anywhere." A tone of concern was apparent in Gerard's voice. What did Rameau want from his master?

"Do you know him?"

Gerard relayed all he knew about Rameau, his suspected crimes, the rumors of his support of Manson. Her eyes widened at the mention of Manson. Not this devil again! She thought that chapter was closed.

What not many people knew was that there was talk in some of the darkest corners of the country that Rameau had been an accomplice to the Iron Mask. Gerard, being a quiet observer at all times, had accidentally come across some of that talk. Hesitantly, he also relayed this information to Aramis.

"I have a bad feeling about all this," he finally uttered, concluding his account.

Aramis approached him, "You seem to know a lot about the Iron Mask…"

"I know what you're thinking. If this is about the chamber, I can assure you it was as much a surprise to me. But…"

Aramis did not look convinced.

"I might be able to find out more. But it will involve some people who I love and I can't put them in harm's way. Let me help you, but please give me time to do it discretely." His tone seemed desperate.

"You mean the Comte and his niece?"

Gerard nodded. Aramis was highly hesitant but she also admired and understood Gerard's loyalty. Despite that he was born into the serving class, he had a defiant nobility about him. There was something in his manners and appearance that was saintly.

With such a man by her side at all times, Aramis wondered how Marianne hadn't fallen in love with him. Or had she? There seemed to be nothing in their dynamic but platonic affection. However, she needed to know for certain. _For Porthos. Yes, for Porthos_, she repeated to herself.

"One last question and this time, I demand the uninhibited truth." She held his gaze commandingly. "Are you and Marianne lovers?"

The question had the same affect on Gerard as if the musketeer would have taken him passionately in his arms. He was electrified. So, his musketeer was jealous!

Gerard smiled, "There has never been anything between us nor will there ever be. Marianne is a sister to me and I love her. We grew up together and it is my duty to keep her from harm's way, as any brother would."

Aramis met his smile with one of hers, satisfied with his answer.

"Then you will report to me with what you will find about Rameau and his plans," she resumed her commanding tone, to the great arousal of Gerard.

He extended his hand to seal their alliance. She took it and he held on to it.

Gerard's smile faded and a dark cloud took its place. "You have my word and my full dedication. But whatever the outcome of this investigation, I don't want Marianne involved."

Aramis nodded. She had a bad feeling about this, too. Something told her that the story of the Iron Mask wasn't over. But can she fully trust Gerard? And what was the connection to Marianne's uncle? Now, her mission was to find out the truth and try to extricate Marianne out of all of this, for the sake of the girl and for Porthos himself.


	10. Monsieur Descartes

**Chapter 10: Monsieur Descartes**

_**Disclaimer: The scenes in this chapter involving Rene Descartes, prominent mathematician and philosopher in the 17th century, are but a figment of my own imagination. They are not based on real events whatsoever.** _

"Off to see Aramis again?" Marianne had snuck into Gerard's room in the servants' quarters. He was fumbling about, gathering his tools.

"I am," he said, nonchalantly, attempting to mask his excitement.

"You've been sneaking off to see him for the last couple of days, haven't you?" Marianne said coyly.

Gerard smiled to himself, "We're working on something and I'm helping him out."

Gerard had decided not to tell Marianne anything about the Iron Mask's chamber, the machine or what he overheard from the Comte de Rameau. Instead, he decided to take things into his own hands: he will help Aramis and the musketeers with uncovering anymore secret passageways, disassemble the machine and trace it back to whoever made it. In reality, he would position himself appropriately so that he would be the first person to uncover the Dandurand seal itched on the very core of the machinery. He would then be able to destroy it before anyone else finds it and pretend that there was nothing to be found, thereby putting an end to any further inquiry and extricating Marianne and her uncle from any connection to the machine and, by extension, the Iron Mask.

Did he feel guilty about lying to Aramis? Maybe. But he had a plan for that, too: he will tell Aramis the truth after he had destroyed the proof. At least that would ensure that he kept his word in carrying out the investigation to the full, as he promised the musketeer. No one said anything about _retaining_ the proof. Besides, he was sure he could count on Aramis' understanding of his loyalty to the Dandurands.

"Well, today is Monsieur Descartes's lecture."

"Ah, that's today, isn't it?" Gerard looked up at her with a dumb expression, scratching his head.

"It is, and you know how important it is! You must go and take notes for me. They won't allow a woman in the lecture hall," Marianne whined.

"I can't Marianne, I gave Aramis my word," Gerard's tone was imploring.

"What about me? You gave me your word!"

"Well, technically, I never promised you," he replied, with a coy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He continued about filling his sack with some provisions and tools.

"Gerard! Well, what am I supposed to do?"

"Why not ask Porthos?" he winked at her.

"I can't, the King is attending the lecture and Porthos is on duty."

"Well, you're smart, I'm sure you'll find a way," he said, somewhat exasperated by this conversation. It was always a struggle when Marianne didn't get what she wanted, obstinate and spoiled as she was.

Marianne groaned. She looked around the room and made her way towards the little writing desk in the room, where Gerard had kept a stack of notebooks. "Fine, then I'll take one of your notebooks."

She picked a notebook sitting in the middle of the stack and opened it to check for empty pages. Her eyes widened as they were met with the face of Aramis staring at her right from the page. She flipped through the pages slowly at first, examining the artwork: there was the beautiful musketeer, featured in sensual poses, flattering profiles and tasteful nudes - no doubt out of Gerard's imagination. Marianne grinned with mischief.

However, the more she stared at the drawings, the more she realized that Aramis resembled more a woman than a man. It was something in the face, in the eyes…she couldn't quite place it. Was it even possible? Before her thoughts could go any further, Gerard, who had glanced at Marianne, slightly surprised by her silence, had leapt across the room and abruptly snatched the notebook from between her hands.

"Not that one," he exclaimed, as he took the notebook away and gestured to the remaining available ones.

"You're obsessed!" she joked.

He rolled his eyes at her. He wasn't about to be dragged into a childish argument. Surprisingly, she didn't pursue it either.

Then in a hushed tone she said, "Gerard, don't you think Aramis looks more like a… woman?"

"I know it's natural to think that of men like me and Aramis."

"Yes, but…"

There was an indignant and warning look in Gerard's eyes. She was treading in a sensitive territory and it would be best to stop.

"Oh well, you'll know best," she mumbled. "Remember, don't get too carried away," she winked at him. These were usually Gerard's famous last-words to Marianne before she headed off to a ball. He understood the allusion and smiled at her. He planted a kiss on her head and hurriedly left the room.

* * *

Disappointed by Gerard's untimely and unexpected desertion, Marianne had no choice but to find the only other man, apart from a musketeer, who just might oblige her.

She found him by the gates, his cape fluttering behind him as he gracefully and effortlessly mounted his horse. She couldn't help but admire his muscular legs and sculpted build. He was not unhandsome. In fact, if Marianne had been older or had a different temperament and different interests, she might have developed strong feelings for him. She suspected he felt the same way. For now, they shared a mutual respect and a basic liking towards one another. A liking that was born out of being forced to tolerate each other's company in unescapable circumstances. After all, they had both been prisoners of their superiors' will and command.

"Are you leaving?" she called out to him, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I will not be back until the end of the convention."

Seeing her disheartened expression, Rochefort dismounted and strode to where Marianne was. He gently lifted her chin with his gloved finger. He had an unexpected tenderness about him that soothed her. Rochefort was not naturally a man of a soft heart, but something in Marianne's demeanour and her candid expressions appealed to that side of him. He couldn't tell if it was her obvious naivety, or the fact that she tried to hide this naivety, or that subtle innocence about her, or her eccentric pursuits; but she was interesting, honest and unspoiled. Unspoiled in all aspects, he sniggered to himself. Rochefort himself abhorred inexperience in the bedroom. He would never assume the role of a teacher nor the emotional responsibility of his partner. Although Marianne was beautiful, her virtue made her completely unappealing to him in that regard. No, he preferred his women with experience, with defined desires, with perverted ideas that he was certainly always willing to oblige.

"There has been some high-profile robberies and other incidents. I must go investigate," he said, announcing the reason for his departure.

"Is it serious?" Marianne was concerned.

"I doubt it. Anyway, there is no need to worry, my men and I have it under control and will arrest whoever is responsible." Marianne admired the confident way in which he spoke. As if he had already done what he said he would do. It was that same authoritative way that earned her respect when he confronted Rameau. Rochefort's confidence, however, masked a deeply seated uneasiness. Something about these incidents seemed familiar: the last time something similar happened was when the Iron Mark was at large. His reason told him that it was impossible. That the Iron Mask had died in the explosion on Belle-Isle. And yet, his gut feeling warned him of something sinister. So, he set off himself to investigate instead of leaving it to one of his subordinates.

"I don't doubt you will," smiled Marianne, encouragingly.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, kissed her hand and remounted.

"Oh and," he turned around, "I don't want you to worry about Rameau. I have someone watching him at all times and he wouldn't dare to come near you. In any case, we will discuss this matter at length upon my return." Without any further elaboration, he rode off.

* * *

"Quietly," Porthos hissed. He took off his cape and placed it on the wooden floor before him, gesturing towards it.

After her unsuccessful encounter with Rochefort, Marianne walked back to the exhibition hall, completely disheartened. It was empty now as everyone had gone to the lecture hall. Monsieur Descartes was rapidly becoming one of the most interesting and prominent philosophers of their time and Marianne was missing this delectable interaction for no reason other than her being a woman. She sighed loudly.

"What's with the face?" a familiar and friendly voice startled her. She turned around and the figure of the brawny and handsome musketeer stood in the doorway. Marianne skipped over towards him, her droopy expression automatically transformed to a beaming grin.

"That's more like it," Porthos said, laughing. Marianne gave him an account of her morning, expressing her distress over missing the lecture in such a theatrical way that made Porthos laugh and feel the need to ease her agony at the same time. She was delightful to him: all he wanted to do was to pick her up in his arms and twirl her around. Her pouty expression was absolutely adorable; he could have kissed her right then and there.

As it happened, he had come to lock the exhibition hall and return to his post in the lecture hall. He informed her that the hall was still empty as the attendees were finishing up their tea. Luckily, Porthos was to stand guard on one of the upper balconies overlooking the podium, making it a perfect hiding spot.

After successfully sneaking her in, he quickly realized that this balcony was not intended for an audience: there were no pews or stools. But that seemed to matter little to Marianne, who could barely even contain her excitement. She quickly sat down on Porthos' cape, her back to the wooden wall of the balcony. She bent up her knees and neatly placed her notebook on her legs for support. Out of the pocket of her dress, she produced a small ink bottle with a quill. To make her neck more comfortable, Marianne untied her hair and shook it out. It fell down in waves of dark and lustrous auburn, framing her face and resting on her décolletage.

It was all Porthos could do throughout this whole time but stop himself from gawking at her in admiration of both her beauty and her dedication to knowledge and advancement. He was flooded with a warm sensation throughout his being, as if standing by her was like standing by a fire on a cold winter night; he was alit with both tenderness and passion at the same time.

The lecture began as Monsieur Rene Descartes saluted his audience from the podium. With her quill poised, Marianne put her nib to the parchment and began scribbling as M. Descartes launched into his theories. As the lecture continued, Marianne's hand, as if moving by its own mind, was fervently printing equations, statements, and tracing rough drawings and sketches. To Porthos' astonishment, although she was not able to see what was being demonstrated, she was accurately drawing out the same shapes with accompanying equations as the illustrations M. Descartes presented, based on description alone.

Porthos was in awe; he felt as though he was being privy to an exclusive and spiritual experience, similar to those he's heard Aramis mention in one of her sermons on saints and religion. It was as if Marianne was outside of her body, as if nothing else existed for her except for these obscure symbols and numbers. To her, mathematics had a way of the mind to its inevitable flow, to shape it into a vessel for its very expression. It was her spiritual calling, her solace from the world. It was philosophical; it made sense; it was very the language of the universe, and that of God. Besides, unlike people, it was reliable. It never promised affection, never disappointed, never died. It never betrayed her nor made her lonely.

Suddenly, the fervent scratching of her quill stopped, but she was still alert, listening intently. She tugged at Porthos' sleeve and he bent down slightly.

She whispered to him, "Ask him what happens if we are faced with an indeterminate problem that involves an infinite number of solutions."

Porthos' jaw dropped. Had she lost her mind?

"Go on, ask him!" she pleaded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

The musketeer was frozen in place. How could he possibly? Not only was it completely out of his place to do so, but he also knew next to nothing about mathematics. He was thankful he could count his coins. He shook his head fervently and looked at Marianne severely. She stared back at him defiantly and then turned away. Was she disappointed? She'll get over it. He won't make a fool of himself in front of all these people and certainly not for the sake of a woman. He was nothing but a musketeer and he was there for the sole purpose of protecting the King. But then again, Marianne wasn't just _any_ woman. And Porthos wasn't just _any_ musketeer. Was he afraid? It was certainly not a situation he was comfortable with. It was something outside of his realm and what he knew. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable and unarmed, a feeling he hadn't felt for a very long time, perhaps since his adolescence, since he first joined the musketeers and Captain de Treville would parade his weaknesses in front of his comrades, exposing every small fault in his technique and form.

So, is this how the mighty Porthos acts in the face of a new challenge? Has he gotten so comfortable with his life that he can content himself to hiding behind his musketeer's cassock?

It had been a while since Porthos had asked himself who he was and what he wanted from life, and now with Marianne in the picture, he was forced to wonder: what kind of a man did she see when she looked at him? More importantly, what kind of a man does he _want_ her to see?

The real Porthos, of course: the brave, courageous and invincible Porthos who faces his enemies and challenges head-on, without hesitation, without any fear or misgivings.

_Well, here goes nothing._

Porthos put out his hand and cleared his throat loudly. M. Descartes stopped and addressed him, "Have you got a question, Monsieur?"

The entire hall collectively turned around towards Porthos, including the King and the Cardinal, who were confused and bewildered, respectively. No one knew what to expect, really. Even Marianne herself was astounded. It only just dawned on her that, while her request seemed reasonable enough to her, it was only the normal thing to do for people in her circle but it was completely out of the ordinary for someone like Porthos.

But there he was, standing upright with his back straight, unflinching, proud and speaking clearly, repeating the question Marianne had asked him. Marianne looked up at him, her mouth agape, completely struck by this raw display of courage. Her eyes shimmered with absolute admiration. He suddenly appeared bigger to her, like a god from a mythological legend whose mere presence could crush an entire civilization. He was indeed a force of nature, not just physically, but also in spirit. In this moment, he appeared to be larger than life itself. Next to him, she felt humble, small and insignificant. But mostly, right then and there, it became clear to her that she was desperately and hopelessly falling in love with him.

There was a moment's pause in the room that felt like an eternity. Porthos could hear his own heart pounding and wondered if everyone else heard it too and if that was the reason that nobody spoke yet.

Then, whispers broke here and there and M. Descartes caught wind of the fact that the individual with the question was none other than a musketeer. M. Descartes was a man committed to freedom of thought and expression. He was also a man of large character who abhorred hierarchy and repression. As such, he was flattered that this musketeer thought his work interesting enough and valuable enough to pose a question.

"An excellent question, Sir. Let us begin by examining the Four-Line Problem. We may arbitrarily choose lines of known length for each unknown line to which there corresponds no equation…" **

There was a loud applause at the end of the lecture that followed a heated debate. The attendees filed out of the hall while Marianne gathered her things.

She stood up, facing Porthos, their gaze locked intently. The truth was that she had shaken him to the core. She had made him feel vulnerable and exposed, had made him question who he was, presented him with a challenge, all of which were things he had never experienced or felt with a woman before. He didn't know what to say to her.

On her side, her mind had shut off completely, giving way to her heart which was overflowing with admiration. She felt such joy, such wonder, such pride and affection - all of which were things she never experienced or felt towards a man before. But what could she possibly say?

She placed her hand gently on his chest, stood on her toes and touched his cheek with her lips. He trembled at the touch of her lips. He reflexively placed his hand on the small of her back and closed his eyes. With his other free hand, he felt her fingers intertwine with his. She lingered for a while longer, neither one wanting to let go.

Marianne reluctantly disengaged from him and turned to leave, their hands untangling ever so slowly and in spite of themselves. She smiled at him, mumbled a thank you and quietly left the hall, unnoticed.


	11. Jealousy

**Chapter 11: Jealousy**

***** This chapter is intended for comic relief (: *****

Capitaine de Treville was a man of a built and composed stature, typical of his rank and training as a solider. He carried himself always with a proud uprightness, his hands neatly placed either by his side or enlaced behind his back. But in this moment, Capitaine de Treville was having a difficult time maintaining his usual self-composure; his steps were hurried and heavy, almost stomping; his hands were flailing about his person like a madman, as they accompanied his babbling speech that alternated between apologies, discrete curses and threats to severely punish his underling. And so, in this manner, the Captain of the Musketeers accompanied his monarch as the Royal procession made its way back to the Cardinal's residence for luncheon and a repose.

He was simply mortified and embarrassed, not to mention enraged. How dare Porthos make such a spectacle of the musketeers? And without the permission of his superior!

"Really, Treville," the King's interruption was timely, as a profanity was about to escape Treville. "There is no need to make a fuss. It was harmless and quite frankly, amusing." Then, looking around him to make sure Richelieu was out of earshot, he leaned closer to him, and whispered, "Something that has been severely lacking these past few days."

The King admired Richelieu's passionate interest in the arts and natural philosophy, given that he himself was never able to fully cultivate these interests. A week-long convention in this sphere was thus beyond His Majesty's capacity in terms of both interest and capability, but he did not want to disappoint his Cardinal by his absence. Especially that the Cardinal had been a pillar of support and counsel following the affair of the Iron Mask.

"And who would have thought! Of all your musketeers," the King roared with laughter, "Athos, I would have imagined. Aramis, even. But Porthos! Imagine that!" the King shook his head, and dabbed at his eyes that teared up with laughter.

The Cardinal had caught up to them, and seeing the mortification on Terville's face, he attempted to restore some soberness into the discussion, "Still your Majesty, Monsieur de Treville is right. It was out of turn and a rather scandalous display. I'm sure if you'll consider…" The King put his hand up, interrupting the Cardinal. He then stopped and turned around to face his two most-trusted men, "I think I've heard enough of this now. Quite honestly, I'm rather tired and I think both Philippe and I should retire for the rest of the day. It's much excitement for my brother."

At the mention of his brother, the King scanned the procession searchingly, "Say, where _is_ Philippe?"

The two men followed the King's gaze. Then the Cardinal spoke, "Probably gone on one of his usual walks, Your Majesty." The Prince had developed a habit of randomly disappearing and going off on his own, unnoticed by anyone. He generally kept quiet and to himself, so it would take some time before someone realized his absence. At first, it was odd and suspect, but then they would always find him strolling the gardens, tending to some flowers, or simply in a corner somewhere engrossed in a book. The King eventually ceased to worry and it became an acceptable activity. No doubt Philippe was more used to solitude than company and preferred to be outdoors as opposed to being cooped up inside, attending to boring matters. Giving him these little freedoms were nothing, when one thought of the horrors his brother must have endured all those years in captivity!

The King sighed, "Treville, send the musketeers to ensure his safety and please inform him I have gone up to my chambers to rest and that he is welcome and advised to do the same before dinner."

* * *

The musketeers of Monsieur de Treville knew their Capitaine better than their own selves. They could easily tell what mood he was in from simple gestures. For example, in this moment, a prominent vein in his right temple was engorged and throbbing, his forehead creased with furrowed eyebrows and his steps were more rapid and decisive than usual. He was furious. Porthos gulped and straightened up into his best soldier statute, as his Capitaine descended on him and Athos. _Here comes the storm_.

The Capitaine examined Porthos carefully then sternly said, "Thankfully for you, the King found that spectacle amusing. Now if it were up to me…" He began waving his finger at Porthos but then it dawned on him that he actually had nothing to say. What could he say? The King was right: it was comical, the high and mighty Porthos, sheepishly raising his hand and uttering incomprehensible words to do with complicated geometry at a lecture attended by prominent intellectuals. Not in a million years could Treville have imagined such a situation! And Porthos of all his musketeers!

Images of an eager and chubby adolescent with messy black curls and jolly grey eyes crossed his mind. Porthos was always the most audacious of his musketeers, the boldest, the risk-taker and the most reliable and dependable. He was the glue that held his team of best musketeers together. With his outgoingness, his easy charm, perpetual good mood, undying loyalty and devotion to his friends and his missions, he was the medium in which the others flowed and flourished. Treville had known and trained Porthos for more than 10 years now. But in those 10 years, he had never seen this musketeer with a book nor heard him speak of anything other than battles, ale, auberges, food and sometimes, women. It is precisely this out-of-character display that unsettled Treville.

To the relief and confusion of the two musketeers, the Capitaine relaxed his shoulders, shook his head and chuckled.

"You could have at least told me you were interested in geometry and philosophy. I would have arranged a private audience for you."

"I…" Porthos began, not knowing what to say.

"But of course, I can see that it might be embarrassing to admit to such interests for a musketeer. Think of all the mockery that could follow you. But I applaud you, Porthos. It's a noble pursuit and interest. Although how and when you find the time to pursue it, I will never know! In any case," he continued, without waiting for a reply from the stupefied musketeer. "Prince Philippe has sneaked off again. If you could both find him, make sure he's alright and let him know the King expects him for supper." With that, he left.

* * *

The two musketeers walked in silence. Athos was putting a great deal of effort in repressing his laughter.

"Well, you could have at least told _us_ about your extracurricular hobbies. _We_ wouldn't have made fun of you at all," Athos finally said, unable to contain his sarcasm.

Porthos shot him a look from the corner of his eye and shook his head. Athos playfully elbowed his friend, "It's alright, I saw you sneak her in."

The grand musketeer sighed with relief

"She's a charming young lady," commented Athos.

Porthos smiled, thinking of Marianne, with her auburn hair resting on her bosom.

"But you can't be serious about her. She's a virgin Comtesse. You don't want to get tangled up in _that_. She's not like those barmaids. She's born and bred for marriage."

"I'm not an animal who is only thinking of one thing all the time when it comes to women, you know," challenged Porthos.

"I didn't mean that. But even if you had serious intentions, she's not the person for you."

Porthos stopped abruptly and looked at his friend, questioningly, hints of anger coloring his face.

"Come, Porthos. She's a child! She's naïve and selfish and I have taken the liberty to ask around: she is a flaky flirt. And who knows what that uncle of hers is up to. He seems rather odd and not someone you would want to be connected to. Not to mention that strange servant who follows her around. I don't know how he managed to convince Aramis to let him assist her," he shook his head and continued, "Besides, look at what she's made you do. You can't possibly make a spectacle of yourself for her! What kind of woman asks a man to do that? I'll tell you what kind, the _manipulative_ kind. The _spoiled _kind."

Porthos was taken aback. Where was all of this coming from? And since when did Athos have such strong opinions over the women Porthos courted? He barely even knew Marianne and already she was a manipulative evil to him, as were all women. Except Aramis, of course. Wasn't Athos past that way of thinking now?

Porthos stood up straighter and puffed out his chest. "It wasn't a spectacle, Athos," he pronounced his friend's name with disdain. "It was a well-placed inquiry at a respectable event."

Athos broke out in laughter at this unexpected use of formal language by his friend. Was he mocking him now?

But Porthos persevered, his voice gradually rising, "You don't know anything about Marianne. And what, I can't be interested in intellectual pursuits of my own free will? I have to _pretend_ I'm interested for the sake of a woman? Do you think so low of me? Because I'm not like you, carrying my book around everywhere and pretending to be serious about everything in life?!"

"Porthos, come on. You're blowing this out of proportion! It's just that this whole thing is… not who you are."

Porthos was now fuming. "Well maybe if you had been paying attention the past while, you would notice more things about your friends."

Athos rolled his eyes theatrically, "Is this about me and Aramis again? I thought she already talked to you about this."

"Oho! Talked to me about this! So, you and her lie in bed after making love to one another and then you discuss the matters of your poor sad friend Porthos, is that it?"

All the amusement completely vanished from Athos' face. "I don't know what's gotten into you but don't stray too far, Porthos," Athos warned.

Porthos shook his head in disbelief, turned around and stormed off.

"Where are you going?" Athos yelled after him.

"To find Prince Phillipe on my own. At least I won't need to use my brain for this task, God forbid."

Athos cursed under his breath and stormed off in the other direction.

* * *

Porthos walked aimlessly in a cloud of fury. Was Athos right? After all, Athos _was_ the most perceptive of his friends and Porthos always trusted the judgement of his friend and followed him without question.

What did he _actually_ know about Marianne? Factually, not much. But he knew how he felt when he was with her. He knew that her smiles and laughter made the world alright. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the memory of the moment they had shared in the lecture hall fill him with warmth and longing.

The lecture hall… It brought back feelings of vulnerability and feebleness. Was Marianne really trying to manipulate him into doing things for her? Was that her true character and was he blind to it?

Marianne _did _have an air of a spoiled child about her. If he let her, he knew she can charm him into doing anything she wanted. Whether she would do it out of maliciousness, he doubted it. But until he's sure of her and of himself, it was best to stay on his guard. None of that emotional nonsense. From now on, he will be distant with her yet friendly.

The sound of laughter interrupted his train of thought. He glanced over to its origin and saw Marianne standing with a man, giggling. She seemed awfully giddy. _A flaky flirt_, Athos' words echoed in his head. A pang of jealousy shot through his heart. He walked over to the couple decidedly.

"Ah, Porthos. I knew they would send someone soon enough." Porthos stopped short, recognizing the voice of Prince Philippe. He bowed.

"Well, as you can see, I am safe and sound. No one had abducted me or made an attempt at my life," he joked. Porthos was unamused.

Marianne looked at the musketeer in earnest, but her smile disappeared when he did not acknowledge her. She felt a tightness in her chest. Prince Philippe attempted to introduce them when Marianne indicated that they had already been introduced.

"I also have a message from the King, Sire. He recommends that you retire to your rooms to rest and then rejoin him for dinner," Porthos declared, shoulders back, arms behind his back.

"Thank you, but I find myself enraptured by the company of this young lady that I think I might return to change just before dinner," Then, looking fondly at Marianne, "If the lady herself will oblige me, that is."

"Certainly! It will give us plenty of time, in fact," she giggled and gave him a mischievous smile.

Porthos looked from Philippe to Marianne. _Plenty of time for what?_ He suddenly felt like he did not recognize her at all. The voice of Athos rang loud in his head. _Born and bred for marriage. Virgin Comtesse. _Was this her plan all along? To come to the convention to snare the best husband she could find? After all, she did attend the King's ball with Rochefort. And now, it seemed, Prince Philippe was taken by her. What sorcery! Then what was _he_ to her? A distraction from her true quest of husband-hunting? A toy in between men? _Damn you, Athos. _

Marianne gestured to a nearby bench. "We could do it there, it seems comfortable and well hidden, too." She said that last part with a wink.

Philippe nodded with a twinkle in his eyes. Then, he turned to Porthos and said in a low voice, "Porthos, what you are about to witness and what I am about to do with Mademoiselle Marianne must remain a secret at all costs, so I will rely on your understanding and undying discretion." With that, the Prince patted Porthos' arm then took Marianne's hand in his and led her towards the bench.

As his gaze followed them, Porthos' eyes widened in horror at the sight of Marianne beginning to unlace her dress while the Prince watched her intently with anticipation.

Colorful scenarios flashed madly in Porthos' head: Philippe making love to Marianne. Taking her as a mistress. Worse, as a wife! Then back to making love to her again. Marianne gloating, in that golden dress of hers, that she had found a husband right at the heart of court. And not just any husband: The Prince himself!

Athos' words dominated his thoughts. He was paralyzed; all he could do was stand by and watch as another man became intimate with the woman he…the woman he what? Loved? What was she to him anyway? How could this even be happening?! How _could_ she? For a moment in time, he thought she was his. He thought she cared for him. And the Prince! How could _he_? No, he had to put a stop to this at once!

"Your Highness forgive me but I cannot allow this," he declared, through clenched teeth, breathing like a dragon.

Marianne stopped abruptly, her gaze sharpened and she snapped at him, "Are you so against one's pursuit of one's passions, Monsieur?"

Ah, she addressed him with the title. "Only when done outside of the confines of propriety, Madame," he retorted.

Marianne's heart sank, her breathing becoming short and intermittent. He seemed to waste no opportunity to express his rejection of her.

"Come now, Porthos. I know this is out of the ordinary but if there is anyone who would understand, I am sure it would be you. In fact, why don't you join us?" the Prince offered.

Porthos was shocked at this indecent offer. _Join them?_ "I am a musketeer of the King, Your Highness, and it is my duty to uphold the Crown's honor and this is not honorable."

The Prince was completely astonished. Marianne was confused. Porthos never expressed any objections or made rude remarks when he learned about her secret hobbies and interests. He even helped her attend the lecture. He even put himself on the line for her. Suddenly, a feeling of emptiness filled her. He's changed his mind about her. He didn't care anymore...

"Perhaps it is better I leave," Marianne muttered.

"I agree," said Porthos, disdainfully.

"I have to say, Porthos, I am thoroughly disappointed in you. Of all people, I did not think you would harbor such ill feelings towards educated women."

"It's the actions taken by the women, not their education."

"Truly, Your Highness, I'll just leave, I have caused you much trouble already…"

"Please remain seated, Madame. Porthos, _you_ may leave if you think this is a disgrace, but Marianne and I are committed to this act."

Enraged, Porthos turned and left. He glanced back at them one last time.

What the…? Marianne had produced a notebook from the inside of her dress, where she had unlaced it, along with a quill and ink bottle that Porthos recognized from earlier.

Philippe looked at her warmly and took her hand in his, "Thank you once more for agreeing to be my tutor."

"Your…tutor?" Porthos spat, slowly approaching the bench again.

They both turned to him.

Prince Philippe was indignant, "Indeed. Mademoiselle Marianne has agreed to give me a few lessons in geometry, physics and philosophy so that I am not completely at loss in this event. But seeing as how you disapprove of any kind of advancement and education for women, I suggest you leave."

The disgrace! Porthos suddenly felt like the biggest ass in the world. He was nothing but a crass and ignorant musketeer. Athos was right, after all. How could someone who thinks in vulgarity be interested in anything remotely clever? His face flushed crimson.

"No, I certainly am not against that. At all!" he stammered, "Forgive me, I… had no idea…That is, I thought you were…" He trailed off, stopping himself before he uttered anymore stupidities.

Prince Philippe looked at him coldly, then he raised one eyebrow and slowly spoke, "What exactly _did_ you think we were about to do?"

"Err… I…"

Marianne suddenly broke out in hysterical laughter. She understood everything now. Porthos blushed a deeper red, lowering his head in shame. To say he was a fool was a generous understatement at this point. Not only had he doubted her, but he also insulted her, insulted the Prince and had made a rather inappropriate and vulgar insinuation of them both.

Philippe looked from Marianne to Porthos, his eyes widening as it finally dawned on him. His cheeks turned a glorious red. "I will pretend that I am but a naïve chap who knows very little of the world and the ways of men so we will not pursue this any further," he said sharply, unimpressed with the musketeer.

The Prince shook his head and turned back to Marianne, who was trying hard to quell her laughter and focus on the contents of her notebook.

Porthos, still submerged in his shame, went and stood against a tree opposite them to keep watch. He would do best to imitate the tree, he thought to himself. Quiet, composed, mature and oh, yes, quiet. Less talking out of one's behind and more observing and perceiving. It wasn't just Marianne who behaved childishly after all.

Marianne caught his eye once or twice, giving him one of her charming smiles which melted his heart. After having cleared the misunderstanding, everything felt right once more. Athos can say what he likes but Porthos was definitely falling in love with Marianne and nothing could change that.

* * *

Aramis was staring out the window of her assigned bedroom. The bedroom she shared with Athos.

"Long day?"

She had been lost in thought that she almost jumped. It was only thanks to the sturdy pair of arms that enveloped her that she was able to retain her balance. Athos couldn't help but feel slightly put off by her reaction. It had an unusual hint of rejection to it. Yet he thought it best to brush it away before it ate up at him. he concentrated his attention instead on depositing tender kisses onto the satiny skin of Aramis' neck.

"We're making some progress," she exhaled, leaning back into his kisses.

"With the Dandurand assistant?" he ventured. He didn't know why he mentioned that but a part of him wanted to know.

She nodded. He could feel her body tense up.

"Rochefort imparted some interesting news before he left," he attempted to change the subject.

"Oh?"

"Do you think it's a coincidence that all of these robberies are happening at the same time that we just rediscovered the Iron Masks's chamber?"

This would have been a good time for her to tell him about Rameau. About what she heard that night while on patrol. But what would she tell him exactly? That the night started off with an indecent dream about Gerard de Villebois making love to her? That she found herself pinned underneath him less than an hour later? That she _liked_ the feeling of his body on her?

She began to panic. Athos had already suffered enough betrayal in his life. Any small suspicion will no doubt ignite something painful for him. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. Besides, there was nothing going on between her and Gerard. Nothing at all.

She had this under control. She didn't need Athos every time she faced a challenge. She was a musketeer. She could take care of missions on her own.

"You seem distant," he finally said, breaking away from her.

"Just tired," she smiled at him and led him to bed.


	12. Yin and Yang

**Chapter 12: Yin and Yang**

The following days proved to be profitable and enjoyable for everyone. Through his lessons with Marianne, Prince Philippe was able to fully appreciate the events of the convention. He was now well-versed in most concepts and topics discussed to the point that he engaged eagerly in the lectures, held discussions and participated in debates with several prominent philosophers. He had found a new sense of confidence and mastery that enabled him to thrive – a feeling he never thought would be possible after all those years in captivity, followed by his difficult adjustment to court life. But with the help of his new tutor, something had been reignited within the being of Philippe: something that he thought he had lost forever; something that might have even died with Francois.

To show his gratitude, Philippe would take notes from the lectures to pass on to Marianne during their next rendezvous. He would also arrange for her to attend salons of private discussions. For that, he had to obtain permission from the King, who was all too happy to grant it upon seeing his brother so radiant and lively. In fact, Philippe's newly acquired disposition had excited the attendees of the convention, including the Cardinal, thereby alleviating the heavy burden from the King for having to endure what he perceived as a hellish boredom. As such, Prince Philippe had quickly become the Royal patron and supporter for the arts and natural philosophy. He had also become an unlikely ally in Marianne's quest for knowledge.

There was never a moment wasted: when they were not in a convention-related function of one kind or another, Prince Philippe would retreat to a hidden place where he would dedicatedly resume his lessons with Marianne, either going over some basic concepts, or poring over some new information he had garnered, which Marianne had to first familiarize herself with it before explaining it to him.

For Marianne herself, these activities served her unquenchable intellectual appetite to a great degree and gave her a sense of a higher purpose that is commonly found in imparting one's knowledge onto an eager pupil. Even though these reasons should have been sufficient enough to ignite her perpetually curious spirit, what really put the spark in her eye and a constant smile on her face was the charming company of her pupil's assigned guardian: the musketeer Porthos.

Seeing as how the three of them had developed an easy and pleasant dynamic, Philippe had appointed Porthos to be his official guardian - another request the King was happy to grant. And so, to Marianne's delight and excitement, Porthos was present by Philippe's side at all occasions, allowing her the opportunity to sneak some longing gazes at the musketeer, admire his figure at her leisure and lose herself in all kinds of daydreams.

Porthos couldn't have been more grateful for his new post. What he expected would be a tedious and dull event had instead placed him among the company he desired most. From his angle at Philippe's side, he was granted liberty to discretely admire this woman who was captivating him like none other; but not just for her looks. At every turn, she impressed him with her quick wit, her calculated speech, her razor-sharp focus and the depth of her familiarity with a subject.

What he began to understand about Marianne was that she existed in a duality. There was the Marianne that he knew well enough by now, the Marianne who melted his heart - _his _version of Marianne: the animated and radiant young woman who was full of life, laughter and innocence, with an obvious but endearing inexperience and naivety. Then there was _this_ Marianne who had held a cold reserve and composure, a concentrated serious expression and who addressed others with such directness and condescension. Sitting in these salons surrounded by these men, one could even go far as to say that Marianne herself could have been a man from her manner, and that the only thing giving her away was simply her dress.

She was proud and passionate. She was fiery in her spirit but icy in her manner. Like the dagger he had given her, she was precise, elegant yet deathly in any debate. He could tell the men in the room became uncomfortable with her presence. When she spoke, her preciseness was commanding; she never uttered words that were unnecessary. In a way, she reminded him of Athos.

_Athos._

They had barely spoken since their argument. Thanks to his new post, Porthos was successfully able to avoid his friend and his sermons about the "evils of women". He had hoped that Athos' relationship with Aramis would have wiped away all the bitterness caused by his earlier marriage but perhaps some shards ran too deep. Athos hadn't tried to approach him either, being engrossed in the events of the convention himself.

Porthos' attention was snatched back to the room by an indignant cry of one of the men in the salon. It was followed by laughter and attempts to console him from those present.

It would appear that Marianne had conquered another adversary in a debate. Porthos beamed. His body reflexively straightened up, his chest puffed out and his head was held high with pride. Yes, that was Marianne. _His_ Marianne, he longed to say. These moments of victory on Marianne's part elicited such a strong and urgent desire in his being: he longed to hoist her up by the waist and kiss her ever so passionately.

Aside from this surge of arousal that these debates brought about in Porthos, he actually found himself drawn to them for other reasons; they were as much duels as any sword fight, save that the weapons were different and the stakes were lower. Yet the dignity one lost or gained was still the same. In this world, Marianne was a master, a conqueror, a queen; whereas he was just an observer, a less-than, an unarmed bystander who - should anyone involve him in this - would probably need her protection and assistance.

Throughout his life, Porthos was always mocked for his lack of abilities when it came to matters of intelligence, such as counting one's coins or concocting an action plan. People always automatically assumed he had neither the interest nor the capacity for intellect. So, no one ever bothered to talk to him about things like books or philosophy. Being a man of a good temperament, he never let it get to him, even if it did bother him sometimes. In the end, he had begun to assume that this was simply who he was, nothing more. But back there in the lecture hall when he ventured his question, _that_ felt good; it felt good to be admired and respected for one's intelligence and for one's curiosity.

Alas, his world was a world of neither. He was a musketeer. But with Marianne, there was a new possibility. He could be someone else with her. She could show him things, teach him things.

At first, he had been reluctant to reveal this side of himself that he perceived as lacking for so long. Especially to someone like Marianne. What would she think of him? She was so advanced in her expertise; he couldn't bare to think just how little she would think of him.

Besides, the last thing that he wanted was to be subjected to one of her condescending and icy attitudes – a weapon in her character she frequently wielded. However, during her lessons with Philippe, he saw in her a compassionate and engaging teacher. Her very passion for her craft, as expressed by imparting it, had melted the frigidity of her exterior, creating a sphere in which she only permitted those who were respectful and curious enough to enter. Those she trusted and judged to be worthy. Marianne had walls that ran high and thick, but the way she behaved with him, the ease in which she found herself to be in his presence was unmistakable: she trusted him and judged him to be worthy.

And so, even to his own surprise, Porthos found that he was genuinely interested in whatever she taught. He would listen in closely and observe, eventually daring to pose questions and ask for explanations every now and then, which Marianne had responded to with such patience and delicateness.

On her part, Marianne was fully aware of the degree of courage it must have taken the musketeer to overcome his very pride in admitting to something he did not know nor possess. After all, he was a man and a musketeer on top of that. Pride and ego were the currency of this category of persons. In her eyes, he had grown even larger, augmenting her admiration for him. His courage was beyond anything she had ever witnessed in a person. For what is true courage if not that which we employ in overcoming our own selves and demons? By doing this, it signified to her that he trusted her fully: he had given her a fragile part of himself, one that she vowed inwardly to protect, nurture and encourage like a young and fragile bud. She thus assumed the role of the guardian and keeper of this cherished gift he had given her, an instinct born out of love and the ebb and flow between their beings.

In the same spirit, Porthos himself had assumed the role of her protector and guardian in the ways he knew best: with his sword, his force and his heart.


	13. Lessons

**Chapter 13: Lessons**

Prince Philippe sighed with exasperation, gently smacking his book onto his knee. He looked at Marianne imploringly.

"I just can't seem to understand how Galileo arrived to the description of phases for astronomical objects," he complained.

They had spent the last hour on their first official day of lessons going over the same illustrations and calculations repeatedly. Marianne was already pacing, her hair had become dishevelled from repeatedly combing through it with her fingers to calm her nerves and keep her frustration to herself. She looked to Porthos for some help but he only shrugged his shoulders.

Her hand massaging her neck, Marianne stopped moving and stared at a random point in space. Eventually, the solution dawned on her.

"I think it best if we should start from the very beginning to refresh ourselves. Are you familiar with the Ptolemaic model, Your Grace?"

"I am, actually. I had updated myself as much as I could from the books I found at the palace. What I can't seem to understand is the link between what Ptolemy put forth and Galileo's assumptions."

Marianne snapped her fingers and grinned.

"Ah, it isn't your fault, then, Your Grace, but mine. The missing link here is the model set forth by Copernicus, on whose work Galileo built his hypothesis and proved it with his observations of Venus."

Marianne, now imbued with a new sense of purpose, sat on the edge of the bench, opened her notebook and dipped her quill in the ink.

"Let me thoroughly explain this from the beginning. After all, to know the basics is to hold the keys to..." Philippe unexpectedly chimed in, completing her sentence, "…to the very heart of truthful knowledge."

Marianne was surprised. She was sure she hadn't uttered this phrase to him before; she would have remembered, for these were her uncle's most famous words to her. He would speak them instead of "good morning" and "good night". In fact, Marianne had made up her mind that, should she bury her uncle someday, she would inscribe these very words onto his epitaph and have them written in his obituary. But perhaps they were not so unique since they seemed to have reached the Prince, of all people. It was bizarre, nonetheless.

"My tutor used to always say that to me. Unfailingly," Philippe explained, gently shaking his head with his eyes closed and a light smile on his face. The image of Francois poring over Philippe while he was attempting to write out verb conjugations in Latin, came into his mind, filling him with a bittersweet nostalgia.

"He must be a clever gentleman, then," Marianne smiled.

"He was," Philippe opened his eyes, a sad smile now decorating his features. Marianne seemed too absorbed in the diagrams she was drawing to notice the change in his demeanour. Philippe was relieved; it wasn't a subject he preferred to discuss, especially at this time.

Porthos looked down at his feet in contemplation. He knew of Philippe's tutor, Francois - Aramis' murdered fiancé. He was loved not just by her, it seems. Porthos wished Aramis would talk more of him. Actually, he wished he knew her story from when she first joined them. He would have comforted her in her grief, lifted her up, helped her avenge him. How different she must have been with Francois! He often wondered about this man and what he was like. Probably a lot like Athos. One thing he never doubted was that Francois must have been an extraordinary gentleman and an honorable man of a pure heart and soul. Aramis would never have done what she had done otherwise.

To think of the grief Aramis must have felt! Grief was something Porthos had never truly experienced to a full degree. He had lost people he loved in his life, but it was only the natural course of events. But to have one's belove murdered in cold blood… What would _he_ have done? He felt the blood rising in his ears as an image of Marianne, stabbed, bleeding and lifeless violently intruded his mind. He shook his head vigorously. He couldn't help but wonder, though. Would Marianne do the same thing for him if she loved him? Would she be capable of doing what Aramis did? More importantly, was he himself a worthy man as Francois was?

...

The three companions sat on an elegant criss-cross spread placed on the grass, enjoying the delicacies carefully selected by Porthos and chatting animatedly while he refilled their glasses with his recommended wine-of-the-day selection. He did most of the talking, recounting stories of his adventures with such theatrical gestures, eliciting all kinds of reactions from his audience. He was a fantastic and gripping storyteller.

These little pauses in the day and the company of Marianne and Philippe reminded Porthos of his friends. A few days into their lessons now, Porthos realized that he missed Athos and Aramis. They were the home he returned to after a long day; whether in a tavern, in one of their houses, at a brothel, or on a mission. He returned to _them_. He especially missed their evenings together, spent in jolly company with ample food and drink, with Aramis making jokes at him and Athos recounting his latest conquest, prompting yet another sermon from Aramis.

But that was before. Before Aramis' secret came to light. Before Aramis and Athos. Things used to be different, seamless, their dynamic flowed effortlessly. Now, there were some complications; some adjustments that made things less smooth. Porthos would sigh and then willingly bring himself back to the present moment and to the delightful company of this young lady who seemed to have such a hold on him.

The time spent in those moments was special to Marianne too. She looked forward to them with every ounce of anticipation. Porthos was such fun to be around; his genuine candour, authenticity and generosity made her feel so much at ease. With him, she felt she could say whatever she wanted and _be_ whatever she wanted. With him, there was a new possibility. She could be someone else with him. He could show her things, teach her things. Not to mention his mere physical presence: so commanding, so powerful with his beautifully sculpted body. She felt safe and protected when he was around.

He was a wonderful host, too, she remarked. They had never hosted events nor received guests at her house, so Marianne was never cultured in the art of hospitality. Perhaps one day, they could host guests together. She blushed to herself.

On their third day together, before lunch, Philippe had been struggling with a problem that Marianne had presented him with. He was sitting on the bench, a book opened to his side and a notebook placed on his lap, his quill poised in his hand, while he absent-mindedly chewed on the feather top. He scratched his head.

Marianne, who was pacing behind him, her hands enlaced behind her back would peek down at his work periodically. She was examining him. Porthos observed them with tenderness. Philippe and Marianne were similar in so many ways: they both had an unmistakable innocence about them. They were intellectual curious people with a tendency for reclusiveness. And yet, they were of a genuine sort, candid in their expression and incapable of deception. Their initial reserve, however, came about differently: while for Philippe it came about as a certain nobility and slight adorable eccentricity, Marianne's was haughty and off-putting.

"You're very close, Sire," she said, taking another peek. It was taking long. Porthos had already set up the picnic and was impatiently waiting for them, but Marianne refused to release Philippe.

These lessons with Marianne had made Philippe nostalgic. Whether it was the nature of their relationship, the dynamic of the exchange between them, or his own biases and memories, Philippe couldn't help but register remarkable similarities between his deceased tutor and his current one.

Francois was always passionate about what he taught, he read and consumed so many books in his life. He was well-versed in anything and everything. Nothing ever escaped him and he constantly kept himself up to date. Sometimes, Philippe used to feel such a pity that Francois, with his great talents and potential, had to whither away as his guardian, locked up in a manor in the country with him. Francois had deserved better. A better life and certainly a better ending.

"Perhaps we can resume after luncheon?" Philippe looked up at his tutor, attempting his most charming smile. In certain poses, Philippe could have sworn he saw parts of Francois in Marianne: The way the nose curved, the shape of the face and the eyes and occasionally, when Marianne tied her hair in a bun, it took on a mahogany brown hue instead of the dark shimmering auburn. But then again, it had been a while since he had seen or heard Francois, so it could be just a mind trick, a false memory. Wishful thinking, even. The dead didn't come back.

Marianne put her hands on her hips, she cocked her head up and sniggered condescendingly. A mocking gesture Francois used to often assume. Then, Philippe intuited exactly what she was going to say before she said it. He just had a feeling, a deja-vu.

"Perhaps if you put as much effort into your attempts at the problems than escaping them, you would finish faster."

And there it was. How uncanny!

Francois' famous retort whenever Philippe was frustrated with his task and begging him for a break. He stared at Marianne a bit longer than what was appropriate. He was about to ask her something when he felt himself being suddenly engulfed by a large shadow. Porthos was leaning over, looking at what Philippe had written, while taking a bite from an apple, producing a loud crunch and drops of spit that landed on Philippe's person.

"Hmm… if you bring the coordinate of 'x' to this side of the axis and move 'y' to the positive, then you would obtain the solution to the equation. Here, like this," Porthos took the quill from Philippe and scribbled something down. "There," he declared.

Marianne's jaw dropped. She looked down at the notebook and saw he had written the exact solution to the problem.

"Upon my word, Porthos," Philippe cried.

With a triumphant look, Porthos took another bite from his apple as his companions gazed at him.

"What can I say? The Mademoiselle is a good teacher," he winked at her and resumed his seat at the picnic.

As they sat down to eat, it soon became evident that Porthos was on edge. Something was troubling him. Eventually, the cause of anxiety came to light when he announced that Capitaine de Treville had given them orders this morning that they were to leave on a 2-week long mission the day after tomorrow. To prepare them for it, he had given them the day off tomorrow to relax.

Marianne looked downcast. "That's a long time…Is it dangerous?" she asked in a little voice.

He smiled at her, "I don't suppose so. It's only investigative."

Philippe, trying to lighten the mood, "Say, Porthos, what do musketeers do on their days off?"

Porthos laughed heartily. "Well, let's see: sleep, eat to one's heart's content, frequent the tavern, spend the night with a woman or two," he quickly bit his tongue. Boasting of one's conquests in front of a woman one is trying to court, _Well done, Porthos_. He looked at Marianne cautiously, but she seemed not to have noticed, lost in her own thoughts as she were, absent-mindedly chewing on a pastry.

What did she imagine would happen between Porthos and her anyway? The convention would end in a couple of days and then she would go back to the country, to her remote home. To her life, where everything was so grey and lacklustre. Would she even see him again? He would probably forget her in a few days' time. Like he said, it'll probably take a woman or two one night and then snap! She would be gone from his memory and life forever. And if not, if he really cared for her and loved her, what would they do? It's highly unlikely that a musketeer would take a wife. A mistress, perhaps. Yes, she could be his mistress for a while. But until when? Until she had to marry someone she didn't love? Or until Porthos found another woman to bed?

"Do you know," began Prince Philippe loudly, attracting Marianne's attention, "I have never been to a tavern before."

Marianne, intrigued, chimed in, "Me neither. I've never even had ale before, come to think of it!"

"I hear taverns can be such fun and I daresay that after all the work we have done these past few days, we deserve a good time," declared Philippe.

"Hear, hear!" Marianne cried with laughter.

Porthos was laughing when he abruptly stopped upon seeing a serious look on their faces. Silence. He understood: This wasn't a statement. This was a request. He waved his hands frenetically to exhibit his rejection of the idea

"No, no, no," he exclaimed, "Absolutely not!"

"Come, Porthos! I'm sure you know a place nearby."

Porthos fervently shook his head.

"Very well, then," the Prince said decidedly, "I did not want to do this but you've forced me: I_ order_ you to take us to a tavern tonight."

_No, not a Royal order!_ Porthos groaned loudly.

Relenting, he sighed and muttered, "I _may_ know a respectable establishment not too far from here. It's frequented mostly by travelers and people of high rank."

"Respectable! But that won't give us the true taste of a real tavern experience!" Marianne protested. She had that same pleading childish tone as she did at the lecture. Oh, if he let her indeed, she could charm him into anything. But he knew better how to handle her now. She could try all she wanted but he will not give in to her.

"Listen here, Madamoiselle, either we attend the establishment of my choosing or we do not go anywhere at all. What will be your choice?" he spoke sternly to her.

She was slightly taken aback by his rough reply, but she relented to him in the end. She couldn't help but feel an electricity in her body as he spoke to her like that. She bit her lip and blushed as an image of him spanking her crossed her mind.


	14. A Musketeer, a Prince and a Comtesse

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 14: A Musketeer, a Prince and a Comtesse walk into a tavern...**

In the evening, a group of unlikely individuals shared a table at a tavern about a half hour's ride from the Cardinal's residence. Porthos was grinning at the sight of Marianne and Philippe looking around them with such wonder, marveling at the noises, the smells, the people; they looked like children at a fair for the first time. For the past few days, it was him who had been a silent observer in their world, a world he rarely found himself in. Now, they were in _his_ world, in _his_ domain, one that was completely unfamiliar to them, in which he was the master and they were the pupils.

"Mon cher Porthos!" a shrill voice pierced through the crowd and made its way to their table. A woman dressed luxuriously, with feathers in her hair, plopped down at their table, uninvited.

"Oh, Madame Claremont," Porthos greeted her, smiling nervously. She put her arm around him and leaned closely into him, almost placing herself completely on his lap. "It's been too long, my dear," she winked at him and gave him a kiss. She was suddenly startled upon seeing Philippe and Marianne, "Oh forgive me, I hadn't realized you were here with your…servants? Ah, but I'm sure they're all used to us by now." She giggled obnoxiously.

Marianne looked on with disgust on her face, while Philippe blushed with awkwardness.

Prince Philippe had developed great observational skills and sharp insight into the people around him – an aptitude born out of necessity and an instinctive need for survival. It was thus not difficult for him to quickly discern that his two companions shared something more than just an amicable friendship. By now, he was sure that the couple were in love, but that neither one of them had admitted to it. Of what he knew in the world of musketeers, Marianne was not the type Porthos would usually associate with. She was a lady, unmarried and unspoiled. Porthos was gentlemanly enough not to simply take advantage of that so his feelings must be serious and deep towards her. He was treading carefully. On her side, it was very obvious to Philippe the degree to which Marianne was taken with this musketeer, though it seemed that that troubled her, constrained her even. He recognized something in her that he recognized in himself: Marianne had never known love and like him, she lacked the basic foundations in the initiation of love that comes from a parent's heart. She had spoken fondly of her friend Gerard, but she always seemed to betray a certain void within her. In short, she didn't know how to be loved nor how to love and Philippe felt sorry for her at this moment.

After some unsuccessful attempts on Porthos' part to get rid of this undesirable visitor, someone called out to Madame Claremont, finally prompting her to get up and leave. Before she left, she put her hand suggestively on his chest and said, "My husband is in the country until winter. Do call on me, won't you?" with a wink, she left.

Porthos scratched his head and laughed nervously, then took a big chug of his drink. Over his glass, he stole a glance at Marianne who was fixing him with a dangerous look, her arms crossed over her chest. He could almost smell smoke coming out of her nostrils. At that image, he repressed a laugh. He felt embarrassed but also aroused by her jealousy. He knew his life would shock her sooner or later, better sooner than later so they can get past this initial adjustment and move on from there. _Lesson number one for the mademoiselle!_

He called out to the barmaid for more drinks. To change the topic, he had begun telling a new story, with the encouragement of Philippe, who was also trying to lighten the mood. Not long after, the conversation began to flow again when the barmaid came by their table.

"Monsieur Porthos, if it isn't you!"

Porthos grinned at her, "Marguerite, did you change your work place?"

"I did. I got married and this is my husband's establishment!"

"Congratulations, I had no idea!"

"The girls at Madame Chabot's miss you very much," she poked him in the shoulder and winked at him, "I saw Jeannette just yesterday and she said you hadn't been for a whole week!"

Any slight appeasement offered to Marianne in the last few minutes had completely vanished. She wanted to throw up. She didn't know what to feel. Of course, she knew all about brothels and prostitutes and sex and men. She certainly never imagined herself married to someone like her: pure and virtuous, nor had she wanted that, but seeing all these women with a claim on her musketeer was like a slap in the face, a wake-up call to reality.

"Remember that time with me, Jeannette and Rosalie? All three of us at once," she giggled, wide-eyed and blushing. Porthos' face had turned crimson. There goes his dirty laundry flying in the face of Marianne. The disgrace!

Images of varying degrees of vulgarity and obscenity flashed in Marianne's mind. Porthos with Madame Claremont, thrusting her, while she screamed wildly with her shrill voice. Porthos with these prostitutes. Three at once! How is that even possible? He must be inside one of them, touching the other, another touching him, perhaps the women were touching each other. _Oh God, stop it, Marianne, stop it!_ Madame Claremont, calling out his name as he spanked her and pleasured her. Yet another unknown woman being taken by him… and how many more? Did she expect any different? Maybe not, but she preferred not to know, or see…

Marianne's breathing was becoming short and intermittent. She was drowning in a pool of charged sensations that took hold of her body as much as her mind: shock, disbelief, anger, resentment, indignation. She felt violated, as if someone had taken something from her; Porthos was hers and she never liked to share. Then she began to panic: Could she ever content herself with the fact that this was his life? That, should she tie herself to him, he could take other women's company? What about her? He must find her boring compared to all these women. He doesn't know it yet but he undoubtedly will. She was unexperienced, untouched, unexciting, unlovable…

The barmaid was still animatedly chatting with Porthos. Marianne's body, unable to hold it together anymore instinctively shot up, but before she could move, a strong fist held her down and in place. She was breathing through her teeth. Why would he stop her? Philippe held her gaze for a while, then mouthed, "Breathe. Calm. Courage." Words that Francois used to say to him when he was in a pickle. Words that kept him alive all those years.

He held on to her hand tightly, afraid she will bolt the moment he let go. He kept mouthing those words at her. She closed her eyes and began taking deep breaths. He could feel her hand relax in his, it was working.

Then he leaned into her and whispered, "Follow my lead." She looked at him, questioningly.

Porthos looked at Marianne, mortified. He could see many colors in her face and it did not take a genius to see that she detested him in this moment. He would detest himself too. Marianne wasn't used to these kinds of displays, she must feel hurt, even betrayed by who he was. Can he truly ever make her happy? Athos' words rang loud in his head once more. He felt disappointed at himself, he felt worthless.

The Prince spoke, tearing him away before he plunged deeper into self-pity.

"Say, Porthos, even in this costume, Mademoiselle Marianne looks splendid, does she not?" he said, dryly.

Porthos, who hadn't looked away from Marianne replied, "She always does, no matter what."

"Good, I'm happy you agree. I was thinking it might be good to find a man for the young lady to dance and flirt with for the evening, don't you think? Why reserve all the fun to ourselves, that is?"

Porthos' eyes widened with disbelief. Was he serious?

"I assume this establishment has more… _gentlemen_ than not," he emphasized the word "gentlemen" pointedly, "so I'm sure one would suffice for an evening of harmless fun. Mademoiselle, what say you?"

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of Marianne's mouth. "Why ever not?" She raised her glass in salute in Porthos' direction, chugged a big amount and then wiped her mouth with her hand. A vulgar gesture, he thought. Nonetheless this rogue rebelliousness made her all the more appealing, all the more…irresistible and beddable in the rudest sense.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Your Highness," Porthos said, whispering 'Your Highness' so as not to blow their cover. His anger was mounting, he was frowning at Marianne. He understood perfectly what was going on: Marianne was jealous and she was trying to make him jealous in turn.

"Nonsense! It'll be enjoyable. I'll pick the man in question, if you will permit me, Marianne," Philippe persisted, ignoring Porthos, whose hands instinctively balled into fists. He stared at Marianne, who was now thoroughly ignoring him and enjoying her newly found attention. The Prince and her were observing the multitude of men in the room, carefully commenting on each one and debating the pros and cons, as if this was yet another philosophical debacle. Very well, then, two can play this game.

When the barmaid came back with more drinks, Porthos put his arms around her waist and, with one gesture, pulled her onto his lap. She almost dropped the drinks and jug she was carrying but he steadied her and helped her put them down on the table. She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck. He leaned his face into her neck, where he placed a few kisses and then whispered something in her ear, making her sigh with pleasure. His fingers toyed suggestively with the laces of her corset.

To Porthos' triumph, his companions were beyond horrified. His face was now too close to her breasts. She giggled louder and gently pushed him away, giving him one wet kiss before she took her jug and left to resume her duties, fearing that her husband might see her if she lingered longer.

Porthos looked after her appreciatively. Then he turned back and nonchalantaly took a sip from his drink, bidding his companions a salute. Then, off-handedly he said, "I hope this satisfies your curiosity about what musketeers really do on their off days."

Philippe was now simply enraged, an emotion he rarely experienced. Had he been wrong? Did Porthos care truly nothing for Marianne? He was indignant for Marianne herself, who was too frozen to react. And what could she say? In the end, it didn't seem like they had spoken about their mutual feelings. There were no promises, no confessions exchanged. Hopefully, she had not given herself fully to him already.

Philippe knew all too well this feeling of paralysis, of inaction. How long and how many times had he been in a situation like this, unable to move, unable to react, to speak, to express. This small injustice committed against Marianne had dangerously escalated in his mind, bringing out all the resentment towards the injustices _he_ had experienced in his life. No, not anymore. He was a man of action now, a man of confidence and courage: a defender.

And so, acquainted with this new boldness in himself, the Prince forsook all his prudish ways in one fell swoop, as he pulled Marianne towards him by the waist and planted an arduous kiss on her lips. Astonished, she didn't know how to react. Her eyes stayed wide open as she felt his lips on hers, his tongue attempting to part through her lips. Instinctively, she put her hands on his chest as if to maintain some distance. The kiss was not unpleasant just… wrong. In fact, it was reminiscent of that one time she had tried to kiss Gerard when they were much younger. Before she could relax into it and let him explore her, Porthos loudly banged his fists on the table, startling them both out of their moment.

The two men exchanged looks laden with rage and menace. In this moment, the hierarchy ceased to exist: it didn't matter anymore who was the Prince and who was the Musketeer. They were two men, reduced to their instincts.

The situation was electrified. All of their hearts were beating at once, anticipating the next move when suddenly,

"What in God's name could you possibly be doing here!?" The tavern went semi-silent, as people turned to watch this spectacle elicited by this loud declaration. This night couldn't get any worse. Marianne turned around slowly to see Gerard towering over her. Gerard was rarely angry and if he was, he would never express it except to himself. She knew she was in trouble.

"What the-?" Aramis appeared next to Gerard, two mugs of ale in her hand. Clearly, they had come in for the night when Gerard, looking for a table, spotted Marianne and her companions.

Seeing as there was no further action, the tavern went back to its normal volume of chatter and everyone had gone back to their business. But a heavy and pregnant cloud of silence remained, engulfing the musketeers and their companions. They all stared at one another, fixed in place as if in a still painting.

Aramis stared around the table: surprised at the presence of Prince Philippe, dressed in drab servant clothing; questioningly at Porthos; puzzled at the unusual flush in Marianne's face - an all-too familiar flush born out of a guilty act. Her gaze finally landed on Gerard, whose sultry green eyes were aflame, his lips pressed, his face worked up. He looked ever so rogue, ever so… tantalizing.

In his turn, the Prince, recovering from his first kiss with a woman, found himself strangely captivated by the newly arrived young man. His chiseled face, his beautiful eyes that glowed, his pink lips that seemed so beckoning. He could feel his heart pounding, his palms and forehead beginning to sweat at this sudden realization: He would have preferred to kiss _him_ over Marianne.

Porthos looked sheepishly at Aramis, knowing full well what she must be thinking. How could he have brought the Prince to a place like this? How could he have forsaken his duty?

Then he looked at Marianne, who seemed to be engaged in an unspoken argument with Gerard. He understood perfectly what the latter was thinking: he was entrusted with Marianne and her presence here meant that he had failed as her protector and guardian. Marianne herself seemed subdued and on the defensive. She was in trouble and it was because of him. And then he had the audacity to show off with the barmaid. How egotistic! How shameful! What could have possibly possessed him? It was one thing to accidentally run into his past lover, but quite another thing to parade it in front of her like that. To kiss another woman in front of her! A low move, a very low move, even for a musketeer. And Philippe! Porthos looked at Philippe, who had developed a brotherly regard towards Marianne. Philippe, who felt like he had to avenge her against the vulgarity of the man she cared for, against _him_. This night had proved to be a great catastrophe and moreover, a failure on his side to show decency and good character, the two very things he had been striving to be for Marianne. He gave in to his instincts, to his ego and pride… He was unworthy. He shook his head and rose. That's it. It was time to go now. Explanations and apologies later.

He was about to speak when a wooden club smacked into his bulky arm. The perpetrator was a burly man with an apron, furious and seeing red. "YOU DARE TOUCH MY WIFE?" he hurled at Porthos.

"Gaston, please, leave him alone," Marguerite appeared behind the perpetrator, attempting to stop him. Evidently, he was the husband. And evidently, Porthos had greatly miscalculated.

Aramis pushed the man away before his club landed on Porthos' head. The sound of chairs falling to the ground echoed through the tavern as several men rose, pulling out their fists and weapons and making their way to Gaston's aid. Here comes Trouble!

They were now surrounded. Gerard put his hand out, protecting Marianne. At the sound of swords unsheathing from his companions, Gerard took out his own sword and lunged into the man in front of him, breaking the first blow.

"Run, Marianne, get out," he yelled as he cleared a way for her and ushered her towards the door.

"Take Philippe with you," shouted Aramis, who was now engaged with two men. Far from being angry, she was grinning. Finally, some action after a long week of dullness. She relished this beyond measure.

"Glad to see you're not mad," a grinning Porthos yelled in her direction, as he was engaged in a corp-a-corp with Gaston. Aramis jumped on a table closer to him, her sword swinging with force and agility.

"Not the time, Porthos," she yelled back, "We'll talk when we get back."

"That doesn't sound good," Porthos shouted as hr pushed Gaston into three of his men, causing them all to fall to the ground, piling on top of one another. He laughed and went to join her.

"Don't just stand there and get Philippe!"

Porthos looked in the direction Aramis gestured to.

Marianne had taken Philippe by the hand and ran towards the door when two men blocked their exit and had now cornered them. She pushed the Prince behind her and, with a swift move, took out her dagger and lunged at one of the men, without waiting for him to attack her. Porthos couldn't help but smile. She used the tactics he had taught her. Thankfully that brute wasn't intelligent enough to come up with some creative moves against her. Besides, he was too drunk already and his balance was unstable. Marianne could take him easily.

Philippe had engaged with the other man, to whom he delivered a very precise and forceful fist to the nose that the man fell on the floor, incapacitated, screaming of pain and bleeding. Philippe smiled to himself proudly, and shook out his fist.

"I think they're doing just fine," Porthos shouted at Aramis, tackling a man who was about to stab her in the back with a dagger.

Gerard was backing into them now, being almost overrun by four men. Smiling coyly, Porthos cracked his knuckles and neck and dove into three of these men, allowing Gerard to vanquish the fourth. He then joined Aramis up on the table, swung his sword here and there until finally a path was clear for them and he took Aramis by the hand and began to run, "Let's get out of here," he shouted back at her.

Aramis shivered at the touch of his hand. He had a small gash on his face and he was all pink with the exercise. While he was with her on the table, she could observe his muscles move up and down, with such elegance and command. What was wrong with her? Aramis was a great warrior, a skilled swordsman, she wasn't a woman faint of heart and yet, she let him lead her out by the hand like a helpless damsel. She convinced herself that it was just the pressure of the situation, nothing more.

Porthos shortly followed them outside where Marianne and Philippe had already brought about the horses. Philippe was already on his horse, extending his hand to Marianne when, overcome by the rush and adrenaline from the fight, Porthos snatched her from the waist and swiftly placed her in front of him on his horse.

They rode with such haste so as to avoid any miscreants who might come after them. Aramis was in the lead, following by Gerard who was attempting to catch up with his rogue musketeer. Behind them, Philippe, absolutely elated by the events of the evening and especially by this new feeling he had, this new discovery. He stared at Gerard the whole way through.

Porthos, his horse supporting two people, with one particularly heavy one, brought up the rear.

"Forgive me, I was a fool," Porthos shouted to Marianne, his arm tightly gripping her waist.

Marianne laughed unreservedly and leaned back into him, her arm gripping his tightly.

"Nothing to forgive," she shouted back, "It was absolutely exhilarating!"


	15. Strained Ties

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 15: Strained Ties**

[I wanted to experiment a little bit, so this chapter was written in the form of a play]

Aramis storms into the common room of the musketeers' designated quarters at the Cardinal's residence.

Porthos walks in after her. Athos, who is reading by a candle looks up, startled.

Aramis turns around and slams the door.

Porthos sighs, rolls his eyes and rests his hat on the table, as Athos slowly puts his book down, his gaze shifting from Aramis to Porthos and back again.

Athos: What is going-

Aramis, interrupting Athos, hysterically announces: Porthos. Porthos has lost his mind.

Athos raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Porthos, indignant:_ I_ lost my mind?_ I_ lost my mind? _Your_ mind hasn't even been _around_ lately.

Aramis huffs and clenches her teeth. She turns to Athos and coolly says: Porthos has decided to take the Prince to a tavern.

Athos, wide-eyed.

Aramis: You heard correctly. I found them there. And worse [pause]

Athos: There's worse?

Aramis, to Porthos: Would you like to tell him, or shall I?

Porthos: What's there to tell exactly? That we got into a fight at the tavern? Because _that's _unusual.

Athos, breathless: A…_fight_?

Porthos, to Aramis: And anyway, why are _you_ mad? It's not like you didn't enjoy every second of it. Don't give me that look, I saw you.

Athos, to Aramis: Wait, how did _you_ know they were at the tavern?

Porthos: Yes, Aramis. What a good question.

Aramis, shooting daggers at Porthos with her eyes, clenching her fists.

Aramis to Athos, dryly, looking him straight in the eye. She had nothing to hide: I went there with Gerard after we finished. To celebrate finishing this project. We ran into Porthos, Philippe and Marianne.

Athos, running his hand through his hair, his anger rising: But of course! No doubt it was Philippe's mistress' idea to do that and Porthos, the ever obliging, relented.

Porthos, approaching Athos, through clenched teeth: She's not his mistress.

Athos: Isn't she! It's all anyone has been talking about.

Porthos: And since when you are one to cling to gossip? It seems to me being around all these aristocrats becomes you well, Athos.

Athos: Just because I have interests outside of this sphere and outside the two of you doesn't mean I lose sight of who I am and my duties at all times, unlike _some_ people.

Aramis, sarcastically: Oh, is that right? Because I hardly recognize you with your nose up in the air this past week.

Athos, pointing his finger menacingly: You know what, you two are becoming insufferable to be around lately and I am tired of your childish bickering. Not to mention that I have been singlehandedly picking up all the duty, while Porthos goes out having fun and _you're_ doing God knows what with that nobody!

Porthos: Oh really! As if you and Aramis don't disappear off on your own, go to your own little corners and leave me and d'Artagnan to pick up after you? [Aramis blushes] Have you forgotten how much slack I picked up when we got back from our last mission? To cover for you two?

Athos: Cut the theatrics, Porthos.

Porthos: The only person being theatrical is _you_, Athos. You always play the victim, always with this holier than thou attitude and no one can measure up to you. Spare us, will you?

Athos crosses his arms on his chest, glaring at Porthos.

Aramis, softly: Look, this week has been gruelling for all of us, and we're all exhausted. We've barely had time to breathe.

Athos, crying out loud: It looks like you all had some time tonight but my invitation was lost in the mail.

Porthos, rolling his eyes: We were on duty.

Athos: Maybe _you _were.

Aramis: Oh, so now you own my time. Whenever I have one free moment to catch myself, I owe it to spend it with you?

Athos, laughs without humor: How funny you should say that because I don't remember that we've spent _any_ time together for you to even say anything. And ever since we got back from our mission, all you've been talking about is how Porthos feels about this and that and _now? _Now you're just thinking about other things entirely, it seems.

Aramis, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

Athos: At least the time you spend apart from me, try to control your desires and don't embarrass me. Don't think I haven't noticed.

Porthos: How dare you talk to Aramis that way?

Athos, snapping: I talk to Aramis however I want and it's none of your business.

Araims: I think it rather is. It's not just you and me in this relationship, Athos.

Athos, icily: Clearly.

Aramis, passionately: And what, all I'm ever supposed to do in my life is become your woman, give you all my time, all my body, all my everything. [bitterly] I'm only just your mistress, anyway.

Athos: Ohohoho! Because you really _hate_ everything I do in bed for you?

Aramis slaps Athos on the face. Porthos sniggers.

Aramis: How dare you, Athos? What about the things_ I_ do for you? Isn't it enough how much I'm risking to be with you?

Athos: It's not much added risk, if you think about it, _Madame_. You've been in disguise since the day you joined the musketeers and that hasn't changed. If you're discovered, I go down with you, so in the end, _I'm_ the one who's risking _my_ life to be with _you_.

Porthos, shaking his head: What hypocrisy! Your mistress? She should be your _wife_. But you won't even marry her, Athos! Even now that you're a free man. Your wife is dead, we were all there, we buried her. But still you can't let go. It's pathetic, if you ask me.

Athos, confronting Porthos: You've gone too far this time.

Aramis, turning to Porthos: You don't need to protect me and fight my battles for me, Porthos. I'm perfectly capable of handling this on my own.

Athos, abruptly turning back to his lover: Battles? So, this is a battle for you now, our relationship?

Porthos, throwing his hands up in the air: You know what? I am TIRED and SICK of both of you. Of your dysfunctional relationship, of your hidden gooey looks, of your arguments and bickering. I don't need to listen to this anymore.

Athos: Believe me, I'm the one who is sick of hearing all about how sad YOU'VE been feeling, Porthos.

Aramis, yells: You're _both_ being RIDICULOUS and I can't stand this anymore!

Aramis unsheathes her sword; her two companions follow swiftly. They all stand en grade, at the ready.

Suddenly, the door bursts open revealing an angry Treville.

Treville, thundering: What in God's name is going on here? Have you all gone insane?

Lowering his voice: A duel? Right under the Cardinal's nose in his own residence? You didn't even have the decency to go somewhere else.

The musketeers are flushed with shame and guilt. Their swords droop in their hands. They exchange charged looks with one another, not bearing to look at their superior.

Athos puts his sword away and his companions follow.

Treville, looking from one to the other: I don't have time for this now so get your act together before this mission and you will report to me in detail the source of this seemingly terrible dispute that drove you to these unflattering circumstances. Shame on all of you.

Like children being scolded, the musketeers look down at their feet.

Treville shakes his head in exasperation and sighs: Athos, I need you to go over some details for tomorrow and for the mission.

Athos, relieved, walks out the door. Before Treville closes the door, he turns to the other two: And you better be glad I didn't rescind your day off tomorrow. Use it wisely or there will be no rest days for you for an entire year, mark my words. Go find yourselves a river and COOL OFF. Or drown in it, I couldn't care less.

With that, he slammed the door.

Aramis and Porthos stare at each other for a few minutes before bursting out laughing at the Capitaine's outrage.

They sit across from each other on the table, fiddling with their thumbs awkwardly.

Porthos finally smiles at Aramis and takes her hand in his. She smiles without looking at him.

Porthos: You know, it's alright if you have a crush on Gerard. It's normal.

Aramis blushes: is it _that_ obvious?

Porthos laughs: I'm sure even your horse has noticed by now.

Aramis groans: Oh God. Athos was right.

Porthos: Relax, no he wasn't. And you don't need to tell him anything. It's a harmless crush. You'll see, it will go away in a few days. He's a beautiful specimen, so I don't blame you.

Aramis roars with laughter: A beautiful specimen!

Porthos: He is! If I were a woman, I would swoon over him. [Porthos makes a swooning gesture, eliciting more laughter from his companion].

Aramis, drying tears from her eyes: You're not jealous he spends all that time with Marianne?

Porthos, contemplating: Not really, actually. There's something… instinctively non-threatening about him. As if he doesn't exude masculinity somehow.

Aramis: Like me, you mean?

Porthos, laughs: _Exactly_ like you! But I'm sure he's not a woman.

Aramis, raising her eyebrows: That's what you thought about me, wasn't it?

Porthos: Yes, but that's different.

Aramis: How is that different?

Porthos, agitated: I don't know, Aramis, stop questioning me, I'm tired. [Porthos stretched and yawns]

Aramis, gravely: Anyway, I think he knows.

Porthos looks at her questioningly.

Aramis: I think he knows about me. He keeps making all these hints as if he knows my true nature, as if he knows me.

Porthos, smirking: So, you're keeping an eye on him in more than one way, then?

Aramis, smiling: I suppose I am.

Porthos, more seriously: Well, I think that's wise.

Aramis smiles and covers Porthos' hand affectionately with both of hers.

Looking him in the eye, and cocking her head gently to the side, she says: And you? Is it just a crush also?

Porthos blushes. He doesn't know what to say. His silence answers her question. Porthos, who is usually rambunctious and likes to brag and show off was out of words now. Aramis smiles in this silent acknowledgement.


	16. Slow n Steady

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 16: Slow 'n Steady**

"Mmmm, yes, keep going, Marianne, keep going," Porthos exhaled in between heavy breaths. The tavern was empty, except for their nude figures. Marianne was seated on Porthos' lap, his arms firmly wrapped around her curvaceous waist. Her auburn locks fell onto her heaving breasts, covering parts of them, making the mystery underneath all the more alluring. He kissed the neck she offered to him. She moaned graciously as she moved up and down his erection.

"Porthos, that's enough," came an irritated voice from the corner of the room. "It's my turn now," the woman whined. It was Marguerite, the barmaid. Marianne abruptly stopped, a disgusted and disdainful expression forming on her face. "You promised me," she lashed at him.

"No, this is not what this looks like!" he pleaded. But it was too late: she disengaged her body from his in such recoil and raised her hand to slap him, "Marianne, no."

SMACK! He jostled with a start. His eyes instantly shot open as the figure of the blonde musketeer materialized in front of him. There was a big smirk dancing on her face. He looked around him. He must have fallen asleep on the floor after downing a few more glasses while playing cards with Aramis into the late hours. He touched his palm to his cheek, which burned with the force of her slap.

"Ouch!" he groaned at her.

Aramis sniggered, "We're even now. Come on, get up. We shouldn't waste the day."

Porthos rubbed his head and yawned. He could still taste the sweetness of Marianne's warm skin on his tongue. He lifted his finger to his lips as a silly smile dessinated on his features. The dream might be over but his mind continued the fantasy. The image of the great Porthos, sitting there on the floor, with his messy curls and a lovestruck expression on his face was just endearing. Aramis grinned warmly at him.

The sun shone brightly and the birds sang unreservedly. It promised to be a very hot summer day that warranted limited exertion and brought about the beginnings of humid weather that would eventually give way to a summer storm in a day or two.

After their argument, Athos had decided to spend his day off attending the last few lectures, which were of great interest to him, thus leaving Aramis and Porthos to their own devices. Although disappointed at not having the opportunity to spend the day with Athos, Aramis was too fed up to engage in any more arguments and bickering. Some distance would do them some good. And she would finally get to the bottom of this Gerard business and put an end to it.

As per Aramis' proposition, they packed a picnic and invited Marianne and Gerard to ride with them to a lakeside an hour or so away from the Cardinal's residence.

...

[_This part of the chapter was inspired by the song I Wish I Knew You by the Revivalists_]

As soon as the horses were brought to a stop, Marianne jumped off and ran to the edge of the lake. Porthos looked on after her. She seemed so wild today, so playful and carefree. Every encounter seemed to showcase a different angle of Marianne, and he was learning that she had many angles.

She was the kind of person whose surroundings dictated her behaviour. Her temperament was not set, rather, it was always moving, always changing, always adapting in an endless cycle of discovery and learning. In one sitting, Marianne's countenance could change from an icy reserve to a passionate and animated speech and on occasion, liberal and hearty laughter or a childish grimace. She was attuned to the slightest nuances in her environment and in the people before her. It was as if little invisible strings connected her being to every single aspect of her surroundings, alive or not; to every word that was spoken around her and every displayed gesture. A slight vibration in her environment thus caused a ripple that traveled along these strings and when it eventually reached her, it was amplified to a point of resonance within her spirit, igniting an instinctual and profound reaction. This made her someone who was full of possibilities and Porthos loved possibilities.

Sensing his impatience to be with Marianne, Aramis took the reins from him. "Go," she winked at him, "We'll take care of the horses and the picnic." Porthos smiled back at her in silent gratitude and left.

He walked quickly, anxious to reduce the distance between them once more. Marianne's arms around his waist throughout the journey made him crave her embrace again. The warmth and closeness of her body was intoxicating. Not to mention her ample bosom, which he could feel pressed up on his back.

The closer he got to her, the slower his pace became. Just as Marianne was taking in the view and exclaiming adorations for the scenery, he too had his own scenery to indulge in. The figure that stood before him deserved to be admired: Marianne wore a simple dress of pastel blue that made the mahogany streaks in her hair stand out more, giving her an air of a fiery rebel. The minimalism of her dress allowed the charms of her generous and perfectly proportioned curves to come out, completely natural and unhindered. Porthos leaned onto a tree a few feet away to ensure a good vantage point. She stood upright with her hands on her hips, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as she engulfed the fresh air around her.

Self-containment and patience were not traits that resonated with Porthos. Growing up, his family never had much of anything. Him and his siblings and even his mother, had to earn their living through hard work in order to survive. But to say they were poor would be unfair, for they were fortunate to have inherited a perpetually merry attitude come what may. They lived in a household that was always full of laughter and joy. They knew how to delight in the little things and the big things in life. As long as they had health, family, love and friendship, they were content and happy. The rest was an afterthought. They saw the good in every situation and every person and found the opportunity in every misfortune.

Now as an adult with means and a respectable position, not much had changed for Porthos, for he still lived to enjoy the pleasures of life. Being a musketeer afforded him ample opportunities for that. And after many years of material deprivation, Porthos had become indulgent. He afforded himself luxury in his dress, attended carefully to his appearance, reveled in his dinners and wines, poured everything he had onto the battlefield and frequently gratified himself in the arms of a woman or two. It was simply the natural thing for him to dive into the next conquest, whether it be an adventure, a woman or simply a dessert, and just as quickly jump out of it to pursue another. Life was to enjoy, not to ponder.

However, now, faced with this young woman whose body seemed to have been made perfectly to his taste, something stopped him from springing in too quickly. So, he stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, content to merely observe her.

Marianne had come to mean to him something more than just a passing pleasure or an opportunity to be taken advantage of. He saw in her a companion; someone he could share the joys of life with unreservedly; someone to spend a whole life with without the risk of boredom; someone to have passionate arguments with followed by equally ardent lovemaking.

He had come to learn that her common display of a calculated countenance was only a result of an acquired habit enforced on her by her upbringing, rather than a reflection of her true character. If anything, Marianne was a creature of instinct at heart. Yet despite her liberal upbringing, like many of her sex, Marianne had also fallen victim to learning to suppress her intuition in favor of a rational approach; even though the intentions behind her indoctrination may be different than those traditionally imposed on individuals of her sex.

Porthos' generous and large spirit was precisely the environment that afforded Marianne free reign for liberal self-expression, whether it be with words or otherwise. He reveled in her raw and unreserved displays, whether in moments of jealousy and anger, or in those of pure enjoyment and engagement. And what passion must she reveal to him in between the sheets…! He trembled at that thought.

He now watched her with such ardour as she began to undress herself. In a delicate and rapid motion, she unlaced the front of her frock and proceeded to pull the fabric away and down her right shoulder first, followed by the left. Her shoulders were ivory in color, silky like a satin handkerchief and dotted with freckles here and there. She then pulled on her sleeves to extract her arms and the fabric of her dress fell to the ground with complete abandon, reflecting the spirit of its owner.

Now in her corset and long underskirt, she glanced at Porthos with a coy smile and jumped into the water without any introductions. Just as quickly after, Porthos relieved himself of his doublet and his pantaloons. Remaining only in his breeches and chemise, he jumped in after her, creating a giant splash that made Marianne cry out in laughter.

...

After some time spent splashing in the water, swimming, diving and playing games; and after some screams on Marianne's part as Porthos tried to catch her and some swears and profanities on his part when she either eluded him or dived in deep to the point he thought she was lost and then reappeared behind him and startled him, they finally emerged out of the water, breathless, exhausted and blissful after the exercise.

Marianne stood in the sun, dripping and hugging herself, while Porthos had gone to fetch his cloak.

"Here, put this on to dry in. If you put your dress on now, it'll just get wet."

He proceeded to cover her half nude body, small compared to his, with his cloak. They stood so close to one another. He laced the cloak around her neck and shoulders, tying it securely so it doesn't fall off. In between the knots, he would steal glances at her. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him and he found himself blushing under her gaze. His chemise clung to his torso, revealing a very thick trunk and a large chest chiseled from muscle. All Marianne wanted to do was to run her hands on his chest, to feel his raw strength under her touch, to feel his large arms surround her, to be completely engulfed by this man, this mythical warrior.

When he finally finished lacing the cloak, their gaze locked intently. Her eyes were aflame, her body was calling out to his. Her cheeks were so pink after the exercise and her lips so red like cherry syrup; he longed to taste them. Hesitantly, she took out her hand from underneath the cloak and placed it gently on his chest. Her heart was pounding and he was so close to her he could feel its vibrations. He returned the favor by placing his hand on her back, pulling her in closer. She trembled at his touch, feeling her knees growing weak. Thankfully, his hand was so big, so spread out it nearly covered her whole back, giving her just the support she needed in this moment. He leaned in closer. She didn't pull away.

"Porthos…" she whispered, pleadingly. And it was all he needed to hear.

He placed his other hand on her cheek as he drew her face to his. She closed her eyes to receive him. She wanted to remember this moment forever, to immortalize it. He leaned in, their breath mingled as their lips gently grazed. He could almost taste the sheer sweetness of her lips. He barely tasted one drop of this syrup, and before he could even press his lips to hers to collect this sweet netcar:

"PORTHOS!" Aramis yelled unceremoniously. The couple were startled that they broke apart. Porthos hurled a profanity under his breath. "There you both are! Everything went quiet and we were concerned," Aramis was making her way towards them, completely unaware of what was about to take place.

"Well, you found us," snapped Porthos.

"The picnic is ready, are you coming?" she said as she began to head back.

Porthos exhaled after her, letting out all his disappointment, frustration and irritation.

"Yes, thanks," he retorted, ungraciously.

He and Marianne exchanged complicit looks before she burst out laughing at the comedy of the situation. His sourness was appeased by her good spirits. He put his arm around her and squeezed her gently to him before they walked back to rejoin their friends.


	17. Sensualities

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 7: Sensualities**

Gerard grimaced upon seeing Marianne, half nude and covered in Porthos' cloak. Marianne rolled her eyes at his expression. They had barely spoken after the events of the tavern, Marianne having claimed she was too tired and quickly retired to her chambers.

The picnic was a generous spread: jams of figs, strawberries, field berries and oranges; freshly churned butter; a delicate white wine; freshly baked rolls of brioche and baguettes; pastries of all kinds; an assortment of charcuteries and cheeses; finger sandwiches and an abundance of fruit.

Marianne sat across from Gerard, who was fixing her with a look of displeasure.

"Anything you'd like to share?" she snapped at him, as she spread some butter on her bread.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I don't think that was necessary. You're going to catch a cold, you know," he reproached her.

"I don't care," Marianne replied haughtily, with a mouthful. She was a lady, yes, but ever so ungraceful when it came to table manners. Porthos found it endearing, in fact, preferring it to the ever so delicate and appetite quenching spectacles of many of the women he courted.

"It's scorching hot anyway and I daresay _you_ could have benefited from a swim too," she continued, gesturing to his sweaty forehead, which he self-consciously dabbed at. This drew Porthos' attention to Aramis. How she must be suffering underneath her clothes and bandages! Not for the first time, she was unable to partake in a cool dip. His heart broke for his friend. How he loved her in this second! She was sacrificing her own well-being so he could spend time with Marianne. He just wanted to reach out and squeeze her in a tight hug. Instead, he smiled warmly at her and mouthed, "Are you alright?" She nodded, took a generous sip of water from her bottle and gave him a thumb up with a wink.

"Some of us have some sense not to be off our guard out in the wild," Gerard retorted.

"Gerard is a prude," Marianne declared to Porthos.

His face coloring, Gerard retaliated, "Well, we can't all be as …promiscuous as you, Marianne."

"Perhaps if you had a bit more promiscuity and took someone to bed every once in a while, it would loosen your screws a bit and make you less sour," she replied nonchalantly, picking some cheese and a cut of ham before stuffing it unceremoniously into her mouth. Aramis and Porthos looked at each other in surprise and amusement at Marianne's unrefined speech.

"Bravo!" Gerard exclaimed, "How elegant of you. I'm sure present company are absolutely impressed by your eloquent vulgarity. Well done." He pretended to applaud.

"I'm sure not as much as they are taken with your riveting sermons on the prevention of the common cold and the virtues of piousness," she responded with the same unphased tone of voice. She was more focused on her meal, but her mind worked in spite of her and her words were still ever so scathing.

Aramis roared with laughter at Marianne's response. She wouldn't stop. They all looked at her as if she was mad. Then finally, wiping tears from her eyes she said to Porthos, "Madame Lachute's Ball two years ago. We had the same conversation!"

Porthos squinted and then his expression lit up as the memory came to him. He roared with laughter.

"Well much of that has improved my friend, ever since you and Athos have been-" Porthos stopped abruptly upon seeing the threatening look in Aramis' eyes. He caught himself just in time.

Clearing his throat, he said, "That is, ever since you and Athos have been frequenting this new, err, brothel."

Marianne looked from Aramis to Porthos. Could her suspicions be correct about the blonde musketeer after all?

Gerard was unphased by this declaration, since he knew the truth. He had seen Aramis with Athos and he knew exactly what Porthos meant.

Porthos nervously laughed and attempted to change the subject, "Here, Marianne, try this. Succulent goat cheese must be eaten with fig and onion spread on a slice of freshly baked baguette."

He brought the morsel of baguette close to her mouth. Marianne obediently opened it to receive it. As he gently thrusted it in, she could taste the sweetness of the jam that lingered on the tip of his fingers. Porthos could feel his arousal at this contact. Unfortunately, they were not alone. Will they ever be? Will he ever have her to himself, even for a second? Best to focus on the present moment and enjoy his time with her, alone or not.

He kept confectioning new and different combinations for her to taste and Marianne savored every bite with ardour, as indicated by the obscene sounds that escaped her. Gerard was becoming uncomfortable whereas Aramis was amused.

"Really, Marianne, contain yourself!" He hissed at her from across the spread.

Speaking with a mouthful, she said, "Oh but, Gerard, you must try this. Here."

She extended herself over the spread, the cloak slightly pulled back and Aramis could clearly see her generous bosom projecting out from her corset. She smiled to herself, thinking how much self control Porthos was probably exercising not to devour her.

Gerard attempted to push Marianne away but she was not to be deterred. She forced a slice of apple covered with fig jam, a cut of ham and goat cheese into his mouth. A colorful combination of salty and sweet exploded in his mouth. In spite of himself, he found himself instinctively moaning and mmm'ing and ahh'ing, eliciting laughter from the group.

"This is really good," he exclaimed with a mouthful.

"Well, Aramis, it's your turn now," teased Porthos.

"No, I…"

"Allow me," Gerard had prepared a second helping and, before she could protest, he had gently inserted it in her mouth. She could taste the saltiness from the cured ham on his fingers. She closed her eyes as her senses exploded with this overdose of the succulent flavors, combined with the electrifying touch of Gerard; his fingers being almost thrust in her mouth made her sex pulsate with pleasure.

Despite having faced some of the most cruel and strong adversaries, containing her pleasure and maintaining her composure in this moment proved to be the most difficult thing in the world.

To the disappointment of the group, Aramis succeeded in her internal battle and only a soft "hm" came out of her. But the contortions on the young musketeer's face were carefully observed and noted by Marianne. The repression, the control! Men were never expected to be reserved. They were expected to be outspoken and boisterous. Unless they were hiding something and Aramis was definitely hiding something. Marianne was now almost sure.

After this delectable meal shared among jolly company, Marianne declared she was cold and needed to dry in the sun. Porthos stood up first and helped her up. She took him by the hand and frolicked towards the nearest sunny clearing she could find. A private clearing.

Aramis looked after them with fondness. The summer of love: its beginning, its joys, its innocence. _Oh,_ _Francois_. Once upon a time, eight years ago, that was her. That was Renee and Francois. Happy and carefree, skipping in the water, racing on their horses, making love in the forest and planning a sunny future. Eight years later and with a new love in her life, these memories still filled her with a stifling warmth that gripped her heart so painfully and mercilessly, stealing the breath from her lungs.

"Aramis?" Gerard's soft voice interrupted her thoughts. He was looking at her with concern. His musketeer seemed so lost all of a sudden, so out of reach, as if plunged in a long-forgotten abyss.

Aramis cleared her throat and dabbed at her eyes. She smiled at him. He returned the gesture, but he knew there was some terrible tragic secret underneath her composure and glacial eyes.

To make things lighter, he pulled out a notebook from his bag. She looked at him curiously.

"I was planning on doing a boring landscape but I think I've found a more interesting target," he smirked.

She looked at him questioningly. He opened his notebook onto a blank page and positioned himself such that he was facing her side, her profile. She was now sitting on a boulder overlooking the lake.

"There, you can brood all you want and I'll profit from it." He winked at her.

She chuckled and let him draw her.

**...**

_[The description of Marianne was inspired by the song "Arabella" by the Arctic Monkeys]_

Prudish was never a term to describe Marianne. Sheltered, certainly. Bookish, intellectual, yes. But underneath that cerebral veil, she had an ardent and active imagination where she pursued her fantasies unhindered.

When she became of age Marianne found herself enjoying the attentions paid to her by men. She would let herself be touched and kissed, but only in the appropriate manner, for she was always conscious of the social consequences that could ruin her, especially due to the place and rank of her own sex in this world. But she was perpetually curious and constantly sought out these experiences to further feed her girlish fantasies.

In her early years of training and education under her uncle, Marianne learned self-restraint, discipline and control, but she was clumsy at it. Her skill improved over the years and she managed to build a solid protective exterior around herself. Her uncle instilled in her that sentiments brought about demise, interfered with one's proper reasoning and success and weakness of the mind should never be tolerated. A weak and cloudy mind was permeable to manipulation and manipulation meant that one lost control over one's faculties, thereby one would have lost the very battle for life itself.

Thankfully, this skill came in handy with her admirers. She allowed herself liberty with them but she knew how to remain in charge at all times. She never loved them and she never sought to love. She merely craved the excitement and the feeling of the desire she aroused and the control she could exercise over these men. But she was getting bored. It was always the same thing: the same dance, the same words and they all resembled each other. So, she settled for Maxim and accepted his occasional violence. Not having been taught in the art of love, Marianne confused Maxim's outbursts with passionate love, and confused his proclaimed right to possess her for protection.

The man currently laying down next to her had caused such a disturbance in her being. He challenged everything she grew up believing and working towards. When she first met Porthos, the physical attraction was instant. Marianne had always pictured that she will end up married to an intellectual aristocrat her uncle approved of, where love may or may not factor into the equation. One thing was for sure: it would be a marriage of reason and intellect. While Porthos was not a companion to spend hours discussing philosophy or refined arts with, he was kind, generous, and delightful. Moreover, he was a protector and guardian. He was the fire that warmed her soul and the treasure chest that could contain her heart. Should he say the word, Marianne knew she would find herself helpless in a situation fully out of her control, where all her insecurities and vulnerabilities would unfold in an avalanche. How she longed for that, to finally be fully open with someone, fully present, bathing in a shared affection and mutual trust. But was it even possible for her?

Marianne's parents left this world when she was only four years old. Any love they might have had for their daughter and any remnants of endearing personality traits they may have possessed and passed on to their daughter seemed to have departed with them. Marianne did not remember them, and her uncle rarely mentioned them (out of grief, she assumed). But one thing was certain: Marianne was in the process of being molded into the same character of the old man who raised her, so she hadn't much hope for herself.

They had been laying down on the grass, side-by-side, under the pretense of indulging in a siesta. But each one of them was so conscious of the other's presence and what transpired earlier, it was impossible to relax, let alone sleep.

With a sigh and a stretch, Marianne pulled herself up into a seated position, hugging her knees. She sat in profound silence, contemplating the water ahead for a long while.

"I suppose I shall never see you again after tomorrow," she began, with a slight tremble in her voice.

Until now, Porthos had remained lying down, observing her, but he instantly shot up upon hearing those words. He was alarmed.

With his fingers under her chin, he gently turned her face towards him.

"Why would you say that?" he said, concerned. Did she not want him anymore? Had he misunderstood before? Did she not want him to kiss her back there by the lake? Was he too forward?

"You're leaving for your mission for a fortnight and we leave tomorrow as well. I don't know when will be the next time I will be in Paris. With my uncle, it could be a good few years," She sighed.

He looked at her tenderly, caressing her cheek, "I'll come see you then."

Her heart melted, but quickly refroze. She looked away.

"Do you doubt me?" he turned her to him again.

With a sad smile she said, "I don't doubt your intentions. But you're a musketeer. When could you possibly spare time to make a journey an hour or two from Paris?"

"I'd do it any day, Marianne." The impracticality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him as well. He could feel her slipping in between his fingers; his heart was racing. _No, not yet. Not ever. He only just met her, he only just found her_. It was true that he only knew her for a short time but she brought him so much light, happiness and purpose. What would life be like without Marianne?

His life suddenly flashed before him. The same old: Athos and Aramis, d'Artagnan and Constance, taverns, battles, missions. And then what? What happens when Athos and Aramis get married? What if they move away? Questions that hounded him over the past year have come back to torment him in this moment. Where would the four musketeers be after that? "All for one, one for all." The same void he had felt since their last mission would undoubtedly come back to haunt him.

But since Marianne, there was more color in his life, more than he could have ever imagined since he became a musketeer. Now, there was someone else he could enjoy things with, someone he could talk to, and be comfortable with. Someone he could protect and cherish and come home to. A new home, a new sanctuary. Suddenly the idea of the brothels and the women seemed so empty, so useless. As if all along he had just been passing the time, toying with the appetizers until the main dish finally came along. And Marianne wasn't just the main dish, she was the full course meal, with seemingly the sweetest most sumptuous dessert he could ever hope for.

The realization put them in a somber mood. They both stared out at the water, listening to the silent waves ebb and flow. The sunny weather and the chirping birds seemed to mock them.

Marianne was picking out tall grasses and twisting them into a knot, absentmindedly.

"What if I were to become your mistress?" she tried to sound as casual as possible, but her heart was racing like a horse on fire.

Not for the first time, her bluntness took him aback. He never knew that words could have such an effect, but these words coming from her aroused him beyond any other woman's touch or looks. How tempting indeed! To become his mistress, to share her body with him, to possess her for himself. Didn't he want nothing more? Ah, but he did.

He smiled to himself, glanced at her and then back at the water.

She turned to him, in an effort to convince him, "I… I could travel with you. I could accompany you on your missions."

"Marianne…"

"We could stop by all the auberges around the country and taste all the delicacies they have to offer! We could go swimming in so many rivers and visit so many charming towns and landscapes. Just think of the north. And of going to Spain, and Italy. Oh, Venice!"

Marianne was getting animated and excited, like a child presented with the prospect of a new toy. Ah, but what a lovely dream! He could even picture it: After a long day of riding, they would settle down at an auberge, submerge themselves in its unique cuisine, spend a jolly time in the company of their friends and retire to their chambers to make love.

"_Ma chere_, the world is a lot more dangerous and serious than you think," he said, gently. Her innocence of the ways of the world tugged at his heart strings.

"I'm not afraid. I can handle myself. I'm sure I can be useful as well. You could teach me to sword fight and to hit. I'll disguise myself as a man, too, if that's what you like."

Porthos chuckled, thinking of that image. No, he would never want her disguised as a man. He wanted her as she is, with her beautiful body, her hair, now drying in the sun, flowing generously in waves down her back, glowing an ember red in the sunlight. How tantalizing she looked.

"No, Marianne, I can't let you," he shook his head.

She turned away from him, and bitterly murmured, "It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? Too frail, too sheltered, too inexperienced of a woman…"

"No," he protested. It's because I love you. Because I don't want to have to watch as someone kills you. Because I don't want to have to bury you. Because I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. Because I want a life with you. I want children with you. Children who will still have their mother, who will undoubtedly become the smartest and strongest children in the country!

"Then what?" she cried.

"You're not someone to be taken as a mistress. You're someone to be honored and cherished and..."

"And married off and locked away, I presume?" she snapped at him.

"I was going to say 'loved'," he shot her a deep intense look that made her shiver. Then he put his hands behind his neck, exhaled and lay back down on the grass, "You're very frustrating and difficult, you know," he said fixing her with one eye.

She scoffed at him, "Yes, thank you, I'm quite aware. It's all anyone has been saying since the day I was born," she snarled. He enjoyed teasing her to the point of angering her; it seemed to arouse him. He smiled to himself.

"No doubt you prefer the breezy and easy company of Madame Claremont," she shot at him. She was fully riled up now and he was thoroughly enjoying it.

He made a face of contemplation and reflection, "I daresay, Madame Claremont can be very charming and generous with her favors. Now _there's_ a true mistress for you." Marianne's face was becoming the color of her hair and her teeth were clenching.

He slowly sat up, his face so close to hers now. She wanted to slap him. But desperately to kiss him at the same time. He could hear her shallow breath.

"But you know," he said, coyly. "It's not really much fun without a challenge at the end of the day. In fact, after some reflection, I think I have come to prefer difficult women."

Ah, so he was toying with her. She turned away from him, feigning anger, attempting to repress a smile.

"What an interesting realization. And pray, how many of those difficult women would you want to handle at a time?" A well-deserved retaliation following last night's revelations of his charming history with women.

"I think just one is more than a handful. Don't you?" he said, inching closer to her. She sniggered.

He was so close to her, their lips were almost touching. The temptation was becoming unbearable. At the last second, she pulled away.

"You know, now that I think of it, I think I prefer my men less difficult and more amenable," she declared.

"Oh, do you, now? Because I got the impression that you might like a man who can hold you in place, wrap his strong arms around you, shower you with affection and tenderness yet treat you with firmness and sternness when you need it."

Marianne trembled. She wanted him so much. How often had she fantasized about this! He was so close to her now. So reachable. She bit her lower lip, without taking her eyes off his.

"Maybe I wasn't made to be a mistress…" she whispered

Their breath mingled as the distance almost closed between them.

"…so, make me one."

_[The following scene was inspired by the song "I Wanna be Yours" by the Arctic Monkeys]_

Unable to resist any longer, Porthos placed his hand behind her neck and pulled her to him, finally putting an end to this tortuous tension that held them captive since their first meeting. The tension receded to give way to the full expression of passion as their lips embraced with such ardour.

She placed her hands behind his neck, drawing him into her more. Marianne was intoxicated, yet thirsty for more. Her body felt weak and shaky, unable to hold herself up against the force of his passion. Porthos took her rudely by the waist and hoisted her up, placing her on his lap, where he can better provide her with an upright support. Her legs folded on either side of his wide waist, causing her underskirt to lift up all the way to her pelvic region, leaving her legs bare and accessible to him.

They embraced ardently for a long time, punctuated by soft moans and sighs, occasionally coming out for breath. Their tongues danced rambunctiously; he indulged in the syrupy taste of her lips and explored her mouth like he would a candied apple. Marianne began to feel something hard and stiff augmenting underneath her, gently rubbing against her crotch. She attacked him more with her kisses, her hands traveling under his shirt, as louder and unmuffled moans began to escape her. She wanted him badly. She craved him with all her body.

She disengaged from his lips and began tracing a line down his neck with her tongue. Porthos let out a gasp; it was pleasantly unexpected. He was usually the one initiating the first non-mouth-to-mouth contact in the dance of love. But Marianne led with such passion and such rawness, he couldn't possibly resist it. She placed her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down to a supine position. His mighty body obeyed her delicate gesture. Locking his gaze, Marianne pushed her hair to one side so it doesn't get in the way. From this point, she could see – and feel – this great and powerful man tremble under her touch. She knew she had him.

Her hands caressed his chest, sensually pulling up his chemise until it reached his neck. Porthos lifted himself and disposed himself of it. He was magnificent! Not even a well-made sculpture of a Greek God would compare to his broad and brawny build. For a moment, Marianne was completely stupefied by the sheer force that this man could exhibit with little effort if he wanted to. His skin had a beautiful tan to it and his shoulders and sides were covered with scars that made him look all the more rugged and…appetizing. At that moment, Marianne realized that she was, in fact, no longer in control. She was under _his_ spell, under _his_ command, whether he used force or not. Her senses were completely possessed: she wanted to devour him and taste every morsel of him. She was lost to her own desires.

She resumed her degustation from his neck, and made her way to his broad shoulders, her hands still firmly placed on his chest. Porthos closed his eyes, giving way to his senses. His crotch throbbed against hers and he placed his hands firmly on her buttocks to keep her in place. Marianne shivered and gasped upon this contact, letting out a throaty moan. His hand traveled up and down her thigh with a touch that was firm yet gentle at the same time. Marianne, now having finished with his chest, moved further down to his lower abdomen. Her pelvic region simultaneously moved lower, grazing his crotch with her weight, eliciting a groan from him. Her legs and waist now out of reach, he stroked her hair as she grazed his lower abdomen with her sultry lips. Porthos realized that he was under a great misconception: Marianne was certainly uninitiated to sex but she was adventurous and she wasn't going to stop. She took him by surprise when her mouth went lower, guided by her hands. For a second, the colossus felt weak and conquered. He was about to give in. _No, he must not! Not yet._

With all the self restraint he could muster, he pulled himself up just enough for his hands grasp her waist once more and, in one fell swoop, he flipped her, placing her gently on her back with his arm underneath her to soften the landing. Marianne let out a cry of surprise, followed by a mischievous grin. He watched her underneath him with such a flaming stare as she sensually tugged at the laces holding the cloak around her neck and it became undone, revealing her half-nude body to him. Her breasts were perfectly round and generous under her corset, her waist voluptuous, her abdomen soft and tender and her legs, oh her legs! He was fixated on her, admiring every inch of her. Nothing else existed for him in this moment. Any thoughts of hesitation or proper social conduct were not loud enough in his head, for he could think of one thing and one thing only: he will make her his, right then and there. This was it. He couldn't wait any longer. Marianne quivered under his gaze, fully understanding and complicit in what was about to happen. She desperately wanted to shed her girlhood and there was no one else she could ever wish to do that with, for here, finally was her knight, her hero, her Hercules.

He placed his forearm on the ground on one side of her. Their lips met again and his body moved halfway on top of hers, pressing against her thigh. Porthos was still adjusting his support so he wouldn't crush her underneath him. But Marianne didn't care; she craved him, she craved the full weight of him on her. He kissed her so passionately and then, as if to return the favor she had granted him, his tongue traced a warm line down her neck while his free hand traveled up and down her leg. Marianne moaned louder as his hand rested on her inner thigh. Her body reflexively lifted up to meet his touch, to instinctively move his hand further up in between her legs. But Porthos merely grazed her crotch, which made her gasp, and slowly and tantalizingly made his way up her waist to her breast, which he gently squeezed. Marianne was losing herself; her breathing was shallower; she couldn't control the sounds that were coming out of her anymore. Her body was begging for him.

Normally, Porthos would spend his time enjoying the pleasure of a woman's body before he entered her. He was always a lascivious lover who could spend an entire night giving and receiving pleasure without the definitive goal of penetrating his lover. But pleasures aside, he felt something now he had never felt before: he wanted to take full possession of this young woman, to use this physical exchange as an expression for something he felt, to assert his claim, to save her for himself and himself only. He began unlacing his breeches and Marianne was doing the same with her culotte.

He kissed her with such passion and tenderness now, his hand caressing her cheek with ardour. She could see sweat beads starting to form on his forehead. Craning her neck up, she kissed his forehead and his cheeks ardently until their lips met again.

Before relieving himself of his underpants completely, Porthos made sure to look up one last time to ensure their privacy. Right, no one was there.

As he was about to lose himself completely, something caught his eye from in between the bushes and he froze. Marianne, who had her eyes closed, was let down as the kiss she was expecting never came. Worse, her lover whispered the name of another woman, "Aramis!"

Marianne felt a deep shock that culminated in a piercing through her heart. Her body instinctively shot up, propping herself on her elbows. Porthos' eyes were wide open and she could see colors of rage in them.

"What is…?" she whispered, out of breath. She traced his line of sight through the bushes and, upon seeing the image in front of her, her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed.


	18. Coming Out

L'amante de Porthos

Chapter 18

**Coming out**

Not long after Porthos and Marianne left, Aramis was lost in her thoughts once more, giving Gerard complete liberty to engage in his artistic pursuit of drawing her portrait.

Far from feeling self-conscious, Aramis felt a profound ease and a capability of openness that she had never felt with anyone before.

"I loved someone once. It must have looked like this, our beginning. Life was so much easier, so predictable, so bright. It seems so far away now."

"What happened?"

"He was killed," the bluntness of this statement tore Gerard's eyes abruptly from his notebook, as a wave of horror traveled through his body. There it was, the tragedy behind the sadness in the musketeer's bright blue eyes. Was he killed because he loved another man? Crimes like these were common and encouraged. It was certainly a strong possibility.

"I'm sorry," he spoke softly. How meek did those words sound against the tragedy he had just heard.

"What was he like, your lover?"

"My lover". Aramis smiled. No one had ever referred to Francois as "her lover". She couldn't help but admit that the term somewhat excited her. "Francois was the most wonderful person I had ever met in my life. He was everything a man ought to be: courageous, noble, honorable, with such a generous and kind spirit. He was equally intelligent and bright. He exuded so much passion for his education. Handsome, of course," she chuckled, remembering Francois' chiseled jaw, his eyes, his lean and warm body.

"I was born so… different. As if I didn't belong in that world. Everything about me seemed to flaunt the natural laws of what was expected. But Francois… he accepted me as I am, he loved me as I am." Aramis absentmindedly rotated the golden pendent around her neck between her fingers. She gently kissed it. In the six years since Francois died, Aramis held on to this story, to these emotions and carried him within her heart, without letting anyone in. Even when the truth was out, she never went into so much detail expressing the profound sadness and loss she felt, let alone express the love and happiness she had shared with Francois.

Yet somehow, now, with Gerard – a man she barely even knew – it just seemed like the natural thing to say. How did he do this? She was the one who was supposed to be uncovering _his_ secret, not the other way around!

"He sounds lovely," remarked Gerard with a sad smile. "He reminds me of my father, in fact."

Relieved to be out of her reverie, Aramis now looked at Gerard, who, in turn was now looking out onto the water.

"Are you close?"

"We were. Very much. He was also so accepting, so loving. He had no evil bone in his body, no ill will. He was my idol and my hero. Still is."

"What happened?"

"It was a carriage accident on a stormy night. The same one that killed Marianne's parents."

"How terrible…" So, Gerard and Marianne's bond and their unusual closeness was solidified by a common tragedy.

"The worst thing about it is how his absence changed me. I became more guarded, more fearful, always looking twice around me, not letting people in. How ashamed he would be!"

"Death of a loved one changes us in profound ways. But love remains long after death. It's the force behind choosing to live after the tragedy."

Aramis suddenly realized that she had extended her hand to his and their fingers interlaced. The feeling of this gesture ought to have further increased the flames of carnal desire between them, but they found themselves instead partaking in a shared experience of healing and a deep understanding of the dark side of life that not many people in this world can relate to.

"For what it's worth, Gerard, you have such a pure heart and a courageous spirit, your father would have been proud."

Gerard closed his eyes, holding back tears. Aramis was comforting him. The man he had come to admire so much and desire so much. For the first time in his life, Gerard realized that he was in love and how good it felt to know that the other person cared for him and loved him too. It was unmistakable.

"Not as courageous as you," he grinned at her, "You became a musketeer."

"I daresay, you would have made a good solider yourself."

"Perhaps. I did think of it. Often," he looked down at his feet.

"What prevented you?"

Gerard put down his notebook and charcoal; with a swift gesture, he removed his chemise.

Aramis' eyes shot wide open with horror. There on his chest, was burnt the mark of a cross. She couldn't help but extend her hand and touch him. He was electrified by the musketeer's touch. How he longed for this moment to last forever!

"Who did this? Why…?"

"It was a group of young aristocrats in my village. They loved to torment those lesser than them. Like you, I was always… different. As you can see, with this, you can't expect me to enter into service without being questioned or suspected or worse. I can't even relieve myself on a hot day by dipping in a cool brook for fear that someone would see."

_Yes, I know what that's like_, she thought. Aramis understood what it was like to be different. She didn't clearly understand just how different Gerard was but it didn't matter. She knew the fears of what can be done to her if anyone had discovered her secret, so if anyone should empathize with the plight of those who even slightly differed from the social norms, it would be her.

Silence enshrouded them once more, each lost in their own thoughts.

Gerard broke the silence. He simply had to know, "Do you love Athos?"

A shock pierced through Aramis' body. This was definitive. Not only did he know about her true identity, but worse, he also knew about Athos. How? When? They were so discrete! Aramis began to panic. If Gerard knew, did other people also know? Were they obvious? It was one thing to fear for herself of being discovered but now that Athos was in the picture, he could suffer the consequences too. He was right, as always. It was him risking his life to be with her.

Aramis finally stood up, completely shaken out of her illusions and reveries. She approached Gerard. She was imposing, authoritative, intimidating even. Gerard swallowed with difficulty.

"What exactly do you know?" the question fell like an ice shard. Aramis' guard was up and her figurative sword was drawn. The last thing he wanted was to cause her distress. _Damn, Gerard, you fool! You should have waited. _

Gerard exhaled, "I saw you at the ball."

Aramis' eyes shot wide open. No! If Gerard saw them, who else could have seen! How reckless were they, how irresponsible! They were behaving like adolescents in love, with no regard to anything else around them. Oh, the shame, the consequences! And what would happen to the Captain? Which would be worse, a reality where his ranks would become ridiculed and possibly dismantled due to allowing homosexual interactions between his musketeers? Or one in which one of his musketeers were discovered to be a woman and was seducing another musketeer!

It was already very hot and Aramis was now completely drenched in sweat, her breath was short and intermittent, completely overtaken by fear and panic. Her thoughts raced to no end. Images she had long suppressed suddenly came back to her: burning at the stake, Athos hanging for his indecent and illegal behaviour, the Captain being shot for his treason…and on and on, from one terrible scenario to another.

Suddenly she felt weak, the figure of Gerard was spinning, she grabbed the boulder on her side to steady herself. Her hand instinctively shot up to her heart. She felt it was going to explode.

"Aramis!" She was about to lose consciousness when he grabbed her in his arms and they slid to the ground. He propped her up on the boulder, grabbing the water bottle and bringing it closer to her mouth. She took generous gulps and it seemed to calm her down.

"Please, just breathe," he was concerned. He had his arm about her shoulder and she could see his perfectly chiseled chest glimmering in the sun. How beautiful he was!

"Aramis, please don't worry," Gerard was trying to reassure her, "I would never say anything, I promise you. I'm not in the business of selling secrets. I know how much trouble this could cause and I would never dream of causing you any harm."

Feeling her heart and breath returning to normal after some time, she disengaged from him.

"How did you know about me?"

Gerard sighed, "I wasn't sure at first, to be honest. But then everything added up. I also have the advantage of recognising what it's like to walk around with a dark secret about yourself, to conceal yourself from others, and to be afraid every single day that you will be found out. To have to control every single gesture and impulse."

Aramis took a deep breath. So maybe not everyone would be able to know. After all, she wouldn't have lasted eight years in disguise if it was that obvious. Gerard was perceptive and a highly empathetic individual. It shouldn't surprise her how easily he uncovered the truth. Most people were blind.

"You just seemed downcast lately and I wanted to know where you stood with regards to Athos since I have hardly seen you speak since the ball, and there always seems to be a tension lingering around you."

Aramis fiddled with her thumbs. Gerard was ever so caring. Here she was, completely exposed and vulnerable and he only showed her acceptance and compassion.

"Athos is… complicated," she began.

Gerard chuckled, "I can tell! To be honest, I didn't think he would be the type of man to be with someone like…" he caught himself just in time.

"You mean to be with someone like me?" a coy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. He blushed.

"It's alright. I didn't think I would be to his taste, either. Athos always had a certain type that was…the very opposite of me. He was married once, you know." What was wrong with her! How comfortable it felt to finally talk, to let things out. But this was Athos' secret, not hers.

"Ah, of course he was. Many men like him end up married. Let me guess, he was an aristocrat?"

Aramis nodded.

"So, what's the reason behind the rift between you two?"

Aramis exhaled. "A bit of everything. I think our relationship made Porthos uncomfortable at first, so I spent a big portion of our time trying to hide it, or to brush it off. I worried too much about how everything would change between the three of us. I think Athos took it to heart."

"Naturally," Gerard nodded. He didn't have to say much. Just the fact that he was listening automatically made Aramis feel so much better. "But how generous of Porthos to be so accepting of this unusual liaison," Gerard remarked.

"Isn't it!" Aramis smiled warmly thinking of Porthos. Porthos who was always there for her, who always took her side, encouraged her, laughed with her, supported her. Porthos who surpassed his own discomfort and the awkwardness so that his two closest friends can pursue their love for each other. The guardian of their secrets and a most true and loyal friend.

"To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen Marianne so happy, so…alive," Gerard declared.

Aramis smiled, thinking of the young couple. Of Porthos in love. The idea filled her with such warmth.

"I confess, I'm a little bit jealous of Marianne's new romance," he grinned.

Aramis laughed, "Well there's a lot of that going around."

"What, romance?"

"Jealousy."

He looked at her questioningly.

"I think that's another reason for this so-called rift between me and Athos." Gerard frowned at the mention of Athos again.

"He's jealous? Of what?"

"You."

Their gaze locked with such intensity. "Well, if Athos is too blind to see what's right in front of him, then it is only fair that I take my chance."

It happened so slowly and yet rapidly at the same time. First, Gerard placed his muscular arm onto the other side of Aramis' body, then his chest pressed up deliciously against hers, as he moved his torso onto her, gently parting her legs, where he moved the rest of his body. She could feel his erection against her lower abdomen, throbbing, augmenting. She was frozen, paralyzed. She desperately wanted to push him away but her body refused to obey. Gerard, undeterred by any resistance, lowered his face to hers, his breath warm and sultry and he pressed his lips against hers with such ardour and desire, forcing his tongue between her lips. Aramis let out a soft moan.

...

In this precise moment, Porthos had lifted his head from the bosom of his lover to make sure they were completely alone before he made love to her for the first time, when he caught sight of the intimate moment between his friend and Gerard. Aramis! How could she?! To betray Athos like that? He thought it was just a harmless crush, a passing fancy. He felt betrayed. Did she lie to him about her own feelings towards Gerard? What does this mean for her and Athos? What will happen to them now? The three musketeers were lost and it was her fault. He will put an end to this once and for all.

Porthos rose with a decided air, lacing back his breeches and fumbling with his chemise.

"I'm sure there's a misunderstanding," Marianne implored.

"And where could the misunderstanding possibly come from! Look at her, look at him! You saw yourself," Porthos was in a rage.

Marianne's eyes widened. "Her?" she exclaimed, "So I was right all along! It _is_ a woman!"

The blood suddenly drained from Porthos' face. _Oh God_. He had just inadvertently revealed Aramis' secret.

Marianne stood up and took his hands in hers.

"Oh, but don't you see? This is marvelous!"

He looked at her like she was mad. What can she mean?

"Now it's clear that there _has_ been a misunderstanding. Gerard would never kiss a woman."

"What do you mean he would never kiss a wo-" And it finally dawned on him.

"He's not a lady's man!" Marianne exclaimed.

Porthos took a deep breath, "So all this time, he thought she was a man?"

Marianne nodded.

They sat back down to observe.

"Oh," they exclaimed.

"Oh no."

"Ouch… poor Gerard."

The scene played out before them as follows:

Aramis was still frozen, feeling Gerard's tongue about to penetrate through her lips. It felt so gentle and tantalizing. A few more second of this and she would have given in completely. _But, no, Athos_.. She placed her hand firmly on Gerard's chest to push him off, but before she could make any move, Gerard was startled out of his own accord, he jumped up and away from Aramis with such recoil as if he was just bitten by a snake.

His eyes were wide open with horror. He blushed crimson with embarrassment.

"You're…."

She mirrored his expression.

"You're a…" he stammered. His palms were sweaty with this realization. No, it can't be. No, this was a nightmare and he will wake up from him. His musketeer, his new love, his newfound soulmate… was a _woman?_

But it all dawned on him now. Marianne's warnings and hints. Everything else about Aramis. He even said so himself! How was that possible? Did no one know? Or was he the one who was blind? Oh, how blind was he!

Before he cried out loud to finish his sentence, Aramis put her hand on his mouth to stop him.

They looked at each other with such intensity, each trembling. Feeling his body relax, she let him go.

"A woman…" he said in a low voice.

Aramis closed her eyes and nodded.

"Oh my God… oh my God! I just kissed a woman."

"I thought you…I thought you knew."

"_Know_? How could I have possibly known?" He cried in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air.

"So, this whole time you thought I was…"

"Yes!"

It was her turn to whisper in a low voice, "You were attracted to me as if I were a _man_?"

Gerard felt defeated. She can judge him all she wants. He looked down at his feet. He was drowning in his own shame. Perhaps if he stared at the earth long enough it will open up and swallow him.

He sighed heavily, bringing his hands to his temples.

"Of course. It all makes sense now! You're not attracted to women; you're romancing Athos and you didn't rebuff my gestures because you thought I knew your secret."

She didn't know what to say. It certainly was not the first time someone mistook her for a man of certain tendencies. But how did she let this get this far? Why hadn't she figured it out before? In between her relationship with Athos, her concern over Porthos and d'Artagnan's absence, Aramis felt alone. She loved Athos but she wasn't always able to speak freely about her feelings with him, especially when they concerned him.

It wasn't just Gerard's beauty that had captivated her, then. It was that she saw a true friend in him, someone she could trust, someone who listened with no judgement and offered his understanding. Someone with a liberal spirit who granted others the same liberty, yet with such sobriety and conviction. She also felt ashamed. She led him on, consciously or not. She was blinded and confused by her own feelings, she fled from the very person she should have communicated these feelings with: Athos. She betrayed Athos. Athos, the man she loved, the man who was already fragile because of past betrayals.

Neither of them said a word. Far from recoiling or judging him, Aramis felt sad for Gerard. Disappointed was an understatement. He looked thoroughly heartbroken. She could tell he was struggling with suppressing his tears. After all, unbeknownst to her, she had offered him a companion, and a love interest with whom he was able to share his secret and confide his deepest thoughts.

"Gerard," she began, meekly.

He shook his head and stormed off in the direction of Porthos and Marianne.

...

"Quick, he's coming! Pretend we're having a conversation," Marianne urged.

Porthos couldn't come up with anything off the top of his head so instead he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Gerard stumbled upon the young couple, only to be met by their half-nude bodies embracing. He turned away in awkwardness. The universe was just rubbing it in his face.

"Jesus, Marianne. Would you put on your dress and stop this indecency? We're leaving instantly," he said coolly, from behind the bushes.

Marianne gently disengaged from Porthos, "I'm sorry, but I think I must leave."

"I understand," he smiled at her, kissing her forehead.

They both rose and walked back to the edge of the lake where they had left their clothes hanging on a tree branch to dry. They got dressed simultaneously, the gesture mimicking a certain domestic flare.

"Listen, Marianne, did you mean what you said before?" Porthos approached her.

"Which part?"

"All of it."

"To become your mistress, you mean?" she smiled mischievously at him.

He chuckled.

"Yes, and everything else."

"I did."

"This may sound unhinged, even to me, but suppose, hypothetically, you, a young woman, were traveling on her own in the same destination as our mission? Then, as gentlemen, we have no choice but to escort you all the way."

She looked at him puzzled at first, but then she comprehended the allusion: He was asking her to come with him.

She nodded eagerly.

"It's only an investigative mission, I'm sure it will be docile and safe enough. I'll teach you a few things just to be safe."

Marianne wrapped her arms around him tightly.

"Yes! Yes, I'd love to."

He kissed her with such ardour.

"Come tomorrow to the garrison at dusk. We leave then."

"I will, I promise!"

He kissed her hand and they walked back to their horses, ending a perfect day with the promise of new beginnings.

Gerard trailed after them. His mind raging with what transpired today and, after overhearing this last conversation between Marianne and Porthos, his jealousy augmented, disguising itself as a certain angry reproach Marianne's recklessness and total abandon.


	19. Checkmate

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 19: Checkmate**

Marianne wore a simple robe, under which she was fully nude. She was combing through her hair, untangling it and removing twigs and leaves from it. She looked tenderly at the young man who poured the last bucket of warm water into her bath.

"Aren't you going to say anything? You've barely said a word," she implored.

"What do you want me to say? You were right. Are you satisfied?" he snapped at her.

"Gerard, I really _am_ sorry. Of course, I'm not satisfied but I did try to warn you."

His back was turned to her but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. He placed his hand in the water to feel its temperature. The contact with the water and the fluid motion of his immersed hand momentarily hypnotized him. Something about it felt comforting, healing.

He was gently startled when he felt Marianne's hand on his shoulder. He turned around to meet her gaze, which seemed full of sadness and pity. Yes, he felt pitiful. He felt foolish and he felt ashamed. Beneath that, he felt heartbroken. He never had much hope for himself and he abhorred his nature more than ever for denying him the one thing he longed for: love. But he must pull himself together. This was not the place nor the time to wallow in self-pity. Not in front of Marianne. She will only pity him further, especially given that she herself was happily and reciprocally in love. His jealousy of her happiness made him sick. If she knew how felt, she, too, would disown him. Then he would be truly alone.

"You know, you really shouldn't go around like that with that musketeer," he said in an icy tone, erecting a wall between his vulnerability and Marianne.

She took her hand off him abruptly and looked away.

"I only say that out of genuine concern for your own benefit. This world is unkind to people like us_." People like them. Women, unmanly men. _Yes, Marianne knew this lecture by heart.

She scoffed, "Everyone loves to paint the world as a cold, dark and terrible place with such despair and no hope. As if we were all doomed for a terrible end just by being. But I am beginning to see that it's the choices people make, not the world itself."

"Well, there aren't many choices afforded to us in the first place. And should you make the wrong one out of this small selection, then you _will_ be doomed to a terrible end."

"Maybe if people were to love more, things wouldn't be so horrible," she murmured.

Gerard look at her with disdain and rose.

"Don't be an imbecile, Marianne," With that, he left her room. Marianne felt stung. Their arguments usually resolved quickly and even when they hurled insults and called each other names, they always had an intuitive understanding that this was done in an amicable spirit. They were closer than siblings; they were kindred spirits. He was Marianne's light and ally against the cruel coldness and loveless upbringing imposed on her by her circumstances, but this light seemed to waver now. It was as if Gerard had now entered a realm that was beyond Marianne's reach. In this realm, she couldn't feel him, she couldn't see him. He was closed off and distant. She stepped into her bath, relaxing into the water and chose to think of other things, happier things. Of Porthos, of their promise, of their anticipated first night at an auberge. She looked forward to the latter as a bride on the eve of her wedding day. She remembered his touch from earlier today, his urgent passionate kisses, the weight of his body on hers. How delicious! Her hand automatically traveled to between her legs.

...

Gerard reproached himself as soon as he was alone. How could he have said that to Marianne? Him, of all people. Was he really so jealous? He should have just told her how he really felt instead of hurting her like that. But he was crushed under the weight of his own pain. It felt easier to lash out instead of give in to it. The events of today had really shaken him. It was the first time he had spoken to anyone other than Marianne about his father. How could he not have seen that Aramis was a woman?

But he was also afraid Marianne wouldn't understand. What did she know of heartbreak? Sometimes her inexperience and her innocence of the ways of the world annoyed him. In her world, everything was so perfect and she had everything. Marianne had power; she had wealth; she had freedoms and liberties not afforded to a great many women in the country, and probably in the whole of the continent.

Why shouldn't Marianne fall in love? Shouldn't he be happy for her? Especially after all these other men who used to court her. He shuddered to even think of Maxim. Why hadn't he told Marianne sooner about Maxim and his cruelty towards him? He was ashamed to admit that a part of him secretly hoped Marianne would confront cruelty on her own, as a lesson. Once again, he felt disgusted with himself. He was drowning in his thoughts and self-pity when the sound of steps coming from the other direction startled him. He hid behind a tapestry.

Thanks to his lightness of foot, Gerard was able to follow the stranger, undetected. The stranger opened the door to the Comte's chamber without an invitation. He slipped in and closed it behind him.

Who can it be at this time? Gerard knew a secret door behind the tapestry that led to the Comte's chambers and opened through the bookcase. Once there, he propped his ear to the bookcase and listened very carefully.

...

Paul-Francois de Dandurand was a tall man with a long oval face and a full head of white hair. His eyes were a deep amber color and he always wore spectacles.

He was squatting down, stoking the fire lit in the fireplace of his rooms. Despite the heat, the Comte was generally a cold man and he preferred a warm source of energy to appease any pain in his joints.

"I was wondering when I would be seeing you," he said to his visitor without turning around.

His visitor sniggered, "You have been a hard man to obtain an audience with these days."

The Comte stood up, smoothing out his clothes. He turned to face the stranger, who was almost as tall as him, if not slightly taller. His hair fell to his shoulders in perfect grey curls. His nose was sharp and his eyes a disturbing blue. His chest was leaner that the Comte's and he had long arms and legs.

"What are you doing here, Rameau?"

"Why, the Cardinal invited me!" exclaimed the visitor, with irony.

"I can't think why," replied the Comte, dryly.

"Something about starting a new page and strengthening ties. Although I'm sure he needs money for some project or another," Rameau replied with a dismissal gesture.

"And why should he ask _you_, of all people?"

"As I'm sure you've heard, I have recently acquired more wealth through financing discoveries and expeditions to the New World and the Colonies."

"I can't say I've heard, no," continued the Comte in his dry tone.

"How silly of me! Why should you? Cooped up in your manor all day, cooking up silly toys and stewing in your own loneliness. I daresay, your complexion looks rather pale," mused Rameau.

"And yours looks like the Devil had sculpted it himself," retorted the Comte with ire.

Rameau laughed. His laugh was always sinister, raspy, almost chilling. "What a warm welcome, after -how many years has it been now?"

"Fourteen." The Comte could feel the blood in his veins freeze. Fourteen years… The tragedy that changed his life was fourteen years ago now.

"Ah yes…," replied Rameau, trailing off, as if lost in thought.

The Comte squinted at his visitor, "To what do I owe this…?" He made a gesture to indicate their exchange, without having to use with the word "honor". For this was anything but.

Rameau took a few steps towards the Comte, "I understand you undertook a certain project for His Eminence. A special…weapon, perhaps? One that is capable of destroying armies a handful of soldiers at a time?"

"And how did you come about this knowledge, pray?"

"I have informers. Or have you forgotten how these things are done?"

They exchanged a look of mutual disdain and hatred.

"You see, I am confused."

"Oh?"

"I thought you were making this weapon for us and us only. "

"Plans change."

"The Iron Mask may be gone but the organization is still intact and thriving, I might add."

"Ah, well how good for you, then."

"Don't toy with me, Paul-Francois," Rameau's patience was being tested.

"I don't owe you, or the organization, anything anymore, Rameau."

"Ah, my friend, but you do. You owe us a great deal, in fact. All these years and we have concealed you, concealed your participation in our… activities, your aid. How would the Cardinal feel about all of this now? We have come to own you, practically."

"And you suppose the Cardinal would believe anything you say? You have no proof, nothing."

"That may be, but planting a suspicion is enough. And soon, the Cardinal, ever so known for his paranoia, will cast you out of his circle and you will come crawling back to us. As usual."

The Comte turned away and exhaled, "I'm finished with that life, Rameau."

"I thought you might say that. In any case, if you won't build it for us, I know someone else who will."

The Comte sniggered, "Well, I wish you good luck with that. I assume you plan on raiding my home to steal the plans, or you might have already done so. But I can assure you, there are none. You see, it's all in my head and I am the only one capable of doing it. You may expose me to the Cardinal and you may end my life but you will never get what you want."

Rameau chuckled, "My dear fellow, we both know you are no longer the only one who is capable of building something like that."

The Comte abruptly turned around; his attention fully captivated now.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Why, your assistant of course." The Comte breathed a sigh of relief. Rameau took the bait. Everything was going according to plan. The Cardinal made sure to make it a point that everyone knew exactly who Gerard was: the quiet and genius assistant of the Comte de Dandurand.

"Gerard is loyal to me and he would never betray me," the Comte said casually.

"How admirable, and how like his father. Loyal to the end, wasn't he? Oh, but there are always solutions to loyalty. And I am sure I can persuade him."

"Do what you will."

The Comte looked at his visitor with a quiet and triumphant defiance. His plan was perfect: once Rameau kidnaps Gerard or approaches him in any way, they would have the ultimate incriminating proof of his involvement with this anarchist organization of the Iron Mask. And finally, they can arrest him and end him once and for all. With Rameau gone, so would the last person who knew about his past, about his contribution to this group of terrible individuals. This was his chance to permanently extricate and liberate himself once and for all from their clutches.

Rameau sighed and began walking about the room, in a circle, toying absentmindedly with a pendent. The Comte watched him with suspicion.

"Do you know," he began, "it was only a couple of years ago at some ball whose host's name escapes me. I saw someone I had never expected to see. That auburn hair, the haughty chin and the eyes. So young and full of life I knew who she was in an instant. After all these years I had spent in the shadows, you would think I would have forgotten, but it was impossible to mistake her. The absolutely perfect mix of her parents. In certain poses, the exact mirror image of Charles and in others, she was purely Katherine. How remarkable."

The Comte stiffened.

"And like a possessed fellow, I followed her from afar, carefully observing and listening, hanging on to every word and gesture. And do you know what I found?" Rameau turned to the Comte for a second before resuming his monologue

"I saw that distance and coldness in her, so reminiscent of you, dear friend. But underneath that, there was a certain candour, a wildness coupled with a candid animation and uninhibition. Not to mention a quick wit and an obvious unnatural intelligence. And then I could no longer see Charles nor Katherine nor you. I could only see Rosalie."

The Comte gasped. His face paled.

"Don't. Mention. That. Name," he hissed.

"How curious, though, isn't it? How carefully you molded her into that."

The Comte was trembling, "I didn't mold her into anything! She's exactly like Charles and no one else." The Comte found himself on the defense.

Rameau sniggered and shook his head, "Say what you will, if that is what you need to convince yourself. But tell me she doesn't remind you of her."

The Comte's palms rolled into fists.

"Tell me, just as you used my sister to help you with your inventions and your discoveries, you haven't used your niece in the same manner. And I gave her free reign and believed you were good for her, good for her advancement. Everyone thought I was mad. But she was so talented, so intelligent, it would have been waste, even though she was unfortunately born a woman. But with you as her husband, it would not have been wasted," Rameau shook his head. "Alas!" he continued, "All that is to say, dear friend, is that we both know who is capable of building the weapon I want. Without any plans or blueprints, just a simple description and encouragement from me."

No. He can't mean her, he can't mean Marianne. He cannot possibly infer that Marianne's likening to Rosalie automatically makes her an inventor. "You're gravely mistaken," the Comte uttered.

"Am I? You see, after that encounter, I encouraged my son to pursue her. Thankfully I did not need much encouragement for she seemed to freely give herself to him. And she was ever so inclined to share some intimate details of her life. Of her… activities and hobbies."

"No… Marianne…" How could she! How could she have been so careless! He had cautioned her and he knew she would never expose herself. How could he have let her? This was all his fault. He should have prevented her, locked her up. Instead, he believed that freedom should be given to anyone, even women. Was he wrong? His palms were sweating. This was a deep and unexpected blow.

"I had hoped they would marry thus containing this matter quietly and giving me unrestricted access to her… talents, but then you opposed it with such insistence. You left me no choice."

"Your son is a monster and I could never wish him upon the lowliest of prostitutes or sorceresses."

"That may be, but the choice remains. Either you agree by your own accord to build the weapon for us, or you give me the girl."

"If I agree to your demand, you will hold us both prisoners to your will."

"Two geniuses are better than one," Rameau mused.

The Comte was trembling in a rage. How could this have gone so far? Inviting Rameau here was simply a ploy to bait him and then arrest him. He had calculated everything, taken into account all the variables and all the possibilities. But now there was this complication. He put his fingers to his temples. His head was throbbing. Rameau, meanwhile, was reading the titles of the books on the shelf, completely unaware of Gerard's hidden figure behind it. In his turn, Gerard's forehead was covered in sweat and his heart was pounding.

"First my nephew, and now my niece," the Comte murmured to himself.

"Hardly your nephew," replied Rameau with a dismissal gesture, "More of Katherine's nephew. But I am sure, as his mentor, you thought of him as such. He got in the way, Paul-Francois. It was nothing personal. Surely, you must know that."

The Comte stared at Rameau with all the hatred and rage he could muster.

Rameau turned to him, his hands enlaced behind his back.

"You knew the risks very well when you recommended him to be Philippe's tutor," he went on, "And I assume you knew the risks when you betrayed him. But you needn't feel guilty anymore; his murderer, that insipid Manson, met his demise on Belle-Isle and good riddance."

"Why, then?" the Comte lashed, "Why now? Why are you doing this? You took your revenge fourteen years ago. We settled our account. Leave Marianne out of this."

"Oh, but I only took a _part_ of my revenge," answered Rameau.

"What more do you want? There is nothing left anymore, you killed my brother, destroyed my family, you took my inventions, my life, everything!" the Comte bellowed.

He fixed the Comte with a puzzled look.

"After all these years and you really don't know?"

"Know what?" hurled the Comte.

Rameau nodded slowly and exhaled. He looked down at his feet.

"So, my sister never told you."

"Tell me what? SPEAK, for God's sake!"

"She was with child."

The words fell like a sword on the Comte's neck. Cold, sharp, precise and deadly.

"No, you're lying… how did you…know?" Unable to hold his own weight, the Comte dropped into a chair.

"I was there, Paul-Francois. I was the one who discovered her, drowning in her pool of blood. Her lifeless body and her amiable spirit completely departed. After your fellows from your precious brotherhood of the Blanc Lys murdered her in cold blood. I was there."

This conjuring served as a dagger twisting so painfully in his heart.

"It…can't be," he breathed.

"Can't it? "

"I…"

"Unreserved and uninhibited as she was. So thoroughly and tragically in love. Perhaps she deserved that ending after all."

"HOW DARE YOU!" Without thinking, the Comte lunged at him, but Rameau, having kept in shape all these years dodged him. In another attempt, they locked fists and wrestled for a while until Rameau pushed the Comte towards the fireplace, the latter's head striking on the mantle before falling and sliding to the floor. He groaned in pain as a trickle of blood sprang from his forehead.

"I will call on you at your home once you have returned and we will discuss the details." Rameau turned around and left, as silently as he came in.

...

Gerard came out from the secret passageway and hid behind the tapestry to make sure Rameau had left. He then quickly entered the Comte's chambers and ran towards his master. His head was down and his body looked limp. _No! He can't be dead…_

"Monsieur, monsieur," Gerard called out. He lifted the Comte's head. He was shocked to see tears rolling hotly down his face. Down the face of a man who had never once shown any ounce of emotion, who seemed devoid, empty and mechanical as the inventions he created. Gerard pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood.

"Gerard, my son," the Comte choked through his tears, "It was all in vain… And now Marianne must suffer for it."

He leaned into the young man's strong arms and wept. Gerard held him for what seemed like a very long time.

When the Comte was finally calm, Gerard told him he had overheard everything. Far from being angry or shocked, he was relieved. Gerard sat by his master as he recounted to him all the missing details.

"Forgive me. I could not tell you. If you had known, Rameau would have seen right through it and disappeared. We made arrangements to ensure your safety no matter what."

While he felt somewhat unjustly represented in this whole manner, Gerard would not have minded to be complicit in the riddance of this terrible man named Rameau. But this turn of events now seemed grave. Rameau had delivered his strike, just as he had promised that man when him and Aramis overheard him in the gardens.

In turn, Gerard told him everything about the Iron Mask's machinery and his success in destroying the seal.

"Good man, Gerard, good man," the Comte said, patting his cheek with his palm.

Suddenly remembering what Rameau had said about his father, Gerard ventured, "My father…"

The Comte looked up at him.

"It wasn't an accident, was it?"

The Comte gently shook his head.

They were silent for a long time.

Gerard could feel his heart constrict and his chest tighten. A feeling of despair and utter hopelessness came over him. _Not again_. It was a new fresh wave of grief. He never even thought that would be possible. People died once, mercifully, and those who lived to mourn needed only to know once. But this? This was like reliving that moment all over again, like being told all over again that his father had died, that he would never see him again, never hold him again, gaze upon his face again. That his protector was no longer there, that his hero was not as immortal and strong as he thought. His eyes filled up with tears. But he felt something else now. Something strong and hot that simmered in the depths of his stomach: rage.

"You lied to me!" he lashed out, "You lied to me all these years!"

"It was the only way," said the Comte, imploringly, "We had to protect you and Marianne."

"_We_? So, my mother knew?" he hissed.

The Comte nodded.

"Wh-What did he even die for?"

"It's complicated."

"EXPLAIN!" Gerard bellowed.

"Please, my son, there isn't much time. Marianne must be protected; you must help me," the Comte desperately pleaded, reaching out for Gerard's hand.

Gerard recoiled and stood up. He couldn't care any less at this second. But he also knew that he wouldn't get any answers right now. Hatred engulfed him. He hated the Comte, he didn't want to help him. He hated Aramis, who betrayed him. He hated Marianne for her happiness. Marianne. Did she also know about her parents? Was she complicit in this secret too? It certainly wasn't beyond her.

"It might be too late for that..." he murmured.

The Comte looked at him questioningly, with worry in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"She promised to run away with the musketeer Porthos tomorrow."

The Comte was overcome by panic, prompting him to finally find his strength and stand on his feet, "No, Gerard, no. We cannot allow this."

"You can't force her once she's made up her mind."

"No, you're right Marianne doesn't respond to force. Bring her to me. Please."

...

An hour or so later, a soft knock disturbed the Comte from his reverie.

"Come in."

The girl who walked in was dressed for bed in a white cotton night dress. Her hair descended down her back in voluptuous waves. The Comte examined his niece. She was no longer a girl. She was beginning to resemble her mother more now that she was a young woman, but he couldn't help but see Charles in her. His innocence, his enthusiasm for life, his wit, his essence. A wave of sadness came over him upon remembering the tragedy that took his bother's life and orphaned his only child.

"I have heard news that you plan on accompanying the musketeers on a mission," he said with no introductions.

Marianne became furious, "Gerard's doing, no doubt."

"He was right to tell me and before you say anything…" But it was too late.

"No, I will not listen to any of this. My mind is made up. You can threaten me with whatever you like." Was Rameau right? Did he purposefully encourage these exhibitions of temper and emotional outbursts so he can glimpse Rosalie? Did he engage in arguments with her so he can purposefully come up against her stubbornness and decidedness that unfailingly conjured Rosalie for him?

He shook his head and sighed. He sat on an armchair overlooking the fire. There was no way out of this.

"Do sit down, my child." Appeased by his calmness, she sat down, upright and indignant.

He rose and sat next to her. He looked so worn out, so vulnerable, now that she could see his face in the light. Unlike the menacing figure she saw upon entry.

"Listen, Marianne, I have enemies," he began.

Marianne held her breath, waiting for more.

Encouraged by her silence, he went on, "When I was a young man, I had lost someone very dear to me and in the madness of my grief, I sought refuge with the wrong people. I thought I had fulfilled my obligations to them but now they have come back to haunt me, demanding more."

"What do they want, money?"

"They want something I cannot give them."

"So, can we not fight them? We have connections now!"

He stroked her cheek gently, smiling sadly. Marianne shivered at the contact. Her uncle had never touched her.

"My hands are tied, I'm afraid."

He could see her chest heaving up and down with deep breaths. She looked at him questioningly.

"What did they threaten you with?" But she knew the answer. The one thing that would cause him to despair. It had to be her. Their eyes locked for a long time. Marianne could scarcely believe it.

"How could this… Where.. who?" she stammered.

"It's best I don't divulge more details. For your own safety, you should know nothing."

How could this be happening? Her mind was racing. Was he lying to her? Why would he lie about such a thing? All this to prevent her from being with Porthos?

"Who are they?" she persisted.

"They are people of the worst kind. The merciless kind. The cruel kind."

"Then, surely, we both must go with the musketeers. You must go to Capitain de Treville and we can…"

"No, Marianne. I can't."

Marianne swallowed with difficulty.

"I have done things in my life that I'm afraid the Capitain de Treville would not look kindly upon."

"But surely, you can explain!"

The Comte shook his head.

"What about the Cardinal? You two are close."

"We had a plan indeed, but it has failed."

The Comte rose.

"As it stands, it is no longer safe for us to return to our home. But all is not completely lost: we will stay here for another month, which gives us enough time for you to marry the Comte de Rochefort."

Marianne jumped up, as if stricken in the face, her eyes wide with shock. Her jaw dropped. She didn't know what to say.

"Listen to me. He is the only one who can protect us, protect _you_."

"How…" Marianne could not speak.

"You will be safe with him and he will see to that. He influence, political and otherwise. No one would dare threaten him and he has the full force of the Red Guard under his command. And so will _you_, when you become his wife. No one would be able to touch you."

"That is absurd" she began storming out. She was almost out the door. Time was running out to convince her and the Comte was desperate now.

"They will kill him," he blurted out.

She stopped abruptly at the door and slowly turned around, daggers in her eyes.

"Your musketeer. They would kill him in a matter of time if you pursue this. And then they will come for you. They will kill him in front you as you watch or the other way around and then they'll kill the other. Is that something you wish upon him? If you truly love this man as you claim, then you must remove yourself from his life."

Marianne hurled at him with full force, "Firstly, you tell me absolutely nothing about these people and you expect me to believe this nonsense when clearly it's a ploy to marry me off to your Cardinal's puppet so you can maintain your favor with him. Secondly, no one can kill Porthos. He's too strong for anyone."

In spite of himself, the Comte laughed. _Wrong move_, he thought to himself.

Marianne shook her head in disbelief. How could he _laugh_?

"You're cruel," she shouted at him, tears hotly running down her face. The Comte was startled. They had arguments in the past where he had seen the worst parts of this young woman but this was different. She was a wounded animal and she hated him as if he had violated her in the vilest manner. The hatred emanating from her was so strong, it pushed him a few steps back. He was out of words. He deserved every ounce of it.

"How could you let this happen?" She yelled, "You gambled with my life! How could you? All these years you had me under the pretense of liberties but you lied!"

He looked at her with despair. Tears in his eyes, "Oh Marianne, please don't."

"And now!" she was hysterical, "Now, you're asking me to give up the one thing. The one thing in my entire life, the one person whom I truly love. My one chance at happiness."

Maybe there was hope after all. _Maybe love can conquer all_, he thought. Maybe for Marianne it might be different.

"I have no doubt of your feelings, my dear."

Marianne suddenly felt disarmed, her shoulders drooped and her tears seized. Her rage was appeased by this strange feeling: Was this how it felt to be validated?

"The fact is, he is already married to his duties and you will always come second, despite his best intentions. He may not be able to always be there for you, to protect you, to please you, to love you. And should he decide to retire this life and you both decide to live off of your income, there is a long waiting period, for you will not receive your wealth until you're twenty-one. And despite his best intentions, there is the life of a soldier, the need for excitement, the traveling, the danger, the taverns, the brothels."

Marianne hadn't thought of that. She just assumed she would accompany him wherever he went, or she would wait for him to come back from his missions while she busied herself with her inventions and discoveries. She couldn't stand a husband who required her presence constantly anyhow. Then there was the issue of other women. She may never know who he had been with, but there will always be that feeling.

"But if truly loves and you love him, and you are willing to put up with all of that and sacrifice everything, including putting your life under his intermittent protection, and he accepts this risk and the responsibility of keeping you safe, then I cannot stop you and you are not obliged to me. My mistakes are not yours to bear."

Marianne stood frozen in place. It was so much to take in. Her uncle approached her and lifted her chin.

"Has he made you an offer of marriage?"

Marianne felt vanquished. "No," she said quietly. "Either way, it seems my life is forfeit. I'll go to Rochefort in the morning."


	20. Ruptures

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 20: Ruptures**

The mission debriefing took place early in the morning the following day. Capitaine de Treville was leading the discussion, occasionally interrupted with questions and suggestions from the Cardinal. The King listened carefully to his two advisors while Prince Philippe was closely observing the musketeers. He was always impressed by their coolness of temper and their unfailing courage to embark on yet another perilous task.

The mission involved investigating some of the nobility in and around Marseille, where recent reports - courtesy of Richelieu's informers - have indicated that there may have been some increased activity in smuggling arms, gunpowder and potentially some mercenaries enough to amass a small army. The Cardinal was under the firm belief that was the doing of none other than Gaston, the duke of Orleans.

Despite the fact that the reports may not have been completely accurate, an investigation was warranted, and it had to be carried out with utter secrecy and discretion. Given that the Comte de Rochefort was occupied with several high-profile robberies around the country, and that this issue involved the King himself, Richelieu had decided to confide his doubts to the Captain of the Musketeers, who volunteered his best recruits for the mission.

The three musketeers radiated confidence and gallantry, as they struck their best soldiers' pose in the presence of their monarch. It had become clear to Philippe over the past year that Athos was the leader of the three. His strategic and calculated mind, coupled with his finesse as a swordsman, made him an unrivaled soldier and a potent adversary. Then, there was Porthos, who possessed an unnatural raw strength and a large brawny build, that the mere sight of him was just enough to strike fear into his opponents' hearts. But underneath all that fortitude was a heart of gold. Just as his whole body was sculpted from muscle, Porthos' heart and spirit were equally made with kindness, gentleness, courage, loyalty and compassion.

And then, there was Aramis. That mythological warrior woman, with her golden hair, soulful blue eyes, magnificent build and fiery spirit. In a way, he thought of her as his saviour, his hero and his one last cherished link to Francois. Their eyes met briefly and Aramis winked at him. He smiled and drew his attention back to the conversation.

The plans were all in place, every detail was carefully thought of and hammered out and every situation accounted for. It was time to adjourn, when the Cardinal made an unexpected announcement:

"Forgive me, but I cannot contain the happy news, Your Majesty. My own lieutenant, the Comte de Rochefort has become engaged to the Comtesse de Dandurand. An alliance that, I am sure will bring many benefits and advantages to France."

Aramis stifled a gasp.

"I offer you my hearty congratulations, Richelieu!" exclaimed the King, "No doubt this was your doing as I understand the Comte de Dandurand is a close friend of yours. How fortunate, as he such an agreeable and clever man. An advantageous connection indeed. I hope we will be seeing more of them both in court?"

"Pardon me, Your Eminence," it was Philippe who had spoken. He looked frazzled and utterly confused, "Forgive me, but I was under the impression that Mari- err, the Comtesse's attentions, that is, were otherwise… engaged." He quickly glanced at Porthos.

The Cardinal was well aware of Philippe's special attentions to the Comtesse during the convention, but he would have never allowed that relationship to come to fruition. No, the Dandurands were very useful and only him, Richelieu, should have the privilege of reaping the benefits they provided.

With a very dry tone, he made sure to lay any doubts to rest and discourage the Prince once and for all, "It was all finalized just this morning. The wedding will take place in a week."

Philippe looked worriedly in the direction of Porthos. The musketeer appeared even larger than when he last glanced at him a few minutes ago. His eyes were aflame and his gaze was completely frozen on a random point in space. His neck had turned a sharp red and his palms were rolled into giant fists, which looked strong enough to strike down a man just by grazing him. His audible breath filled the room. Philippe couldn't help but liken this image to a dragon about to burst its flames and lay waste to the earth underneath.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but we must take our leave," Athos announced, attempting to relieve his friend from this sharp tension that descended in the room.

...

"I'm sure the Cardinal is mistaken. It cannot be true," Aramis cried after him. Porthos was already several steps ahead of them.

"I can't say I'm surprised," came Athos' comment from behind her. Aramis shot him a dark look and hurried off.

Finally catching up to Porthos, she put her hand on his arm to stop him. Dear God, the man was an avalanche when he had a temper. They had stopped on the staircase leading down from the King's chambers, facing a window.

"Porthos, I am sure it just a misunderst…" she trailed off, as something caught her eye from the window. Porthos followed her gaze.

There, in the courtyard, stood Rochefort, with his arms around Marianne and their lips joined.

"No!" whispered Aramis. She turned back to Porthos but he was already gone. Athos passed her by, shook his head and shrugged.

"Well, you're very helpful," she lashed at him.

Without turning to her, he waved his arm dismissively and said, "I told you, Aramis. This was a slippery slope."

_Men_! But how was this possible? Just yesterday Marianne and Porthos were as in love as ever. Just this morning, Porthos announced to his friends that they will be accompanying Marianne on their mission, or rather the other way around. Surely, it was folly, but they accepted it without question.

What was between them cannot have been an act; it was impossible. Marianne may be spoiled but she was not mean spirited nor was she capable of lying. Or was she? Had she misjudged her? Had they all? No, it couldn't be. Something about the manner in which Rochefort had held Marianne seemed… forced. A subtlety that only a woman will recognize. But how to explain that to Athos and Porthos? Especially to an angry Porthos?

Aramis groaned. This matchmaking business seemed to be harder than obtaining Queen Anne's necklace from the Duke!

...

It was late in the afternoon now and the sun was due to set in an hour or so. Porthos had decided to spend the last few hours before their departure partaking in strenuous exercise and training. He was ending his exercise by cooling off in the stables, performing some light chores.

After the debriefing, his single-mindedness had taken him straight to the Cardinal's residence. He simply had to see her. He had to know the truth directly from her. He was bitterly disappointed to find out that the young lady had left early in the morning and has not yet returned.

Where could she be? In Rochefort's bed already?

_No, Porthos, don't think that way,_ he reproached himself, _there must be a perfectly good explanation. A perfectly good explanation as to why she was engaged to Rochefort. To why she was kissing him. Yes, a perfectly good and fantastic explanation. _He kicked a bucket violently.

His anger was mounting with every passing second. The exercise had done little to appease it. It was like a monster waiting to overtake his body and was now engaged in a fierce battle against his docile spirit, against his optimism and his relentlessness in always trying to see the best in people. But anger had a new and powerful arsenal in its army that Porthos had never met before: hurt. More specifically, heartbreak. And it was powerful. His tempers usually came and went. They were stormy and forceful. Immediate and brief. But something about this felt different; it was complex, layered and he couldn't fully understand it.

His only reference to how he was feeling was in everything Athos had said, in Athos' own experience and in his past. Women were expert manipulators and it wasn't just an idea. There were real women he knew; women like Milady, who betrayed Athos in the vilest manner and then proceeded to employ her talents for a living.

Even Aramis was not completely innocent. She had lied to them about her true nature for six years. She had sat there with them all those years as they shared bread and wine together, as they fought together, rode together, laughed together and forged a deep bond under false pretenses. Yes, he had forgiven her. Yes, he had understood. But in this moment right now, the rage and betrayal he had felt when he found out Aramis' secret came rushing back to fuel the monster within.

It was almost dusk now and he was certain Marianne will not come. That was it; whatever that was between them, it was over.

...

As he was lifting the last haystacks, Porthos suddenly stiffened and his thoughts stopped. A familiar scent wafted through, one of delicate rose and geranium, like the scent of a beautiful and lush rose garden.

She was there. She had come.

His heart began to race.

But this didn't feel like the meeting he was looking forward to when he got out of bed this morning. This wasn't Marianne running over to him, full of laughter and exclaiming her joy and excitement. In place of her usual hurried and energetic steps, these were hesitant and light, as if she were floating on air, as if she was barely there. And in place of her excitement, she produced only a heavy and cutting silence.

Without turning to her, he spoke with a thick voice, "Let me guess, you've come to tell me you won't be joining us."

Marianne froze. Did he know already? News really must travel fast in court and Rochefort would not waste a second to announce it, just to rub it in her face.

Met by more of her silence, Porthos straightened up and turned to her. To add to his misery, she looked ravishing. Despite the dark circles around her eyes, her hair was slightly disheveled, giving her a rebellious look. The color of her hair gleamed an attractive shade of mahogany in the late sun. Her cheeks were pink and dewy and her lips an appetizing cherry-red.

He rubbed his hands together to dust off the dirt.

Marianne was wearing a chiffon shawl, but he could see her bosom move up and down with her breath.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he said quietly.

For a moment, Marianne lost herself in the image of the musketeer before her: his perfectly sculpted body, his chemise clinging to his large chest with sweat, his messy hair falling about his shoulders, accentuating their broadness, his skin tinted a subtle peach after the exercise, and oh, his large and muscular arms! How she longed to be wrapped in them again. To feel them tightly around her waist. To feel the warmth of his body on her again. To become one with him. To spend all her days with him.

But all of that was lost now.

Or was it? She could choose differently right now. She wasn't married yet. She could tell him everything now, run away with him tonight and never look back. But how can she never look back? He was a musketeer and he gladly accepted her as a mistress. He would never marry and the moment he was done with her, just like all those other women, she would be lost, ruined. She was just a number to him.

Yet, a part of her couldn't help but rally to his side: this was Porthos. He was a man of honor, he would never do that to her, he would never hurt her. She was sure he loved her and she loved him. She was prepared to give her whole life to him, which was all well and good, but knowing that her life was threatened, did she have the right to rob him of happiness? To subject him to a tragedy? What if something happens to _him_ because of her? Then she would be responsible. What if, what if…

"Congratulations For what?" she replied absentmindedly.

Porthos was puzzled. A shred of hope lit up his heart. Aramis may have been right. Maybe it really _was _all a misunderstanding, nothing more! Marianne was here as promised, to go with him, to be with him, he will make her his at the closest opportunity. He was sure she loved him and he loved her.

And yet… she didn't seem to have brought any baggage with her.

"Your engagement? To Rochefort?" he probed.

Marianne was shocked out of her reverie. Ah yes, _that_. She looked away from him. _Guilty_. This one simple gesture confirmed everything for him, vanquishing any hope, love or understanding he had maintained in his spirit. The monster had triumphed.

"So, it's true, then?" he insisted.

"It's not what you think," she began, her voice was trembling.

"Isn't it? It was pretty clear to me. Why, the Cardinal announced it himself during the debriefing. I doubt he would lie or commit an error in front of His Majesty."

So, it wasn't Rochefort who announced it. Porthos had mentioned that they will be holding a debriefing in the morning, and she had made sure to see Rochefort during the same time so as not to cross paths with him. How could they have known?

Then, it finally struck her: This was planned all along. This wasn't a spur of the moment request on part of her uncle. He had planned this. He had committed her life once again without her knowledge and without her consent. He may disguise it as a plea for securing her protection, but it clearly served his own purposes. Marianne suddenly felt helpless. Helpless and angry and conflicted.

"But it's not for the reasons you think, please let me exp…" she pleaded.

He cut her off. His voice was rising, "Rochefort must make a great husband. He's wealthy, he's connected, he has power and influence. And maybe he's not a bad lover either."

Marianne winced at the last part. Her encounter with Rochefort had been… unpleasant, to say the least.

"Porthos, stop, please." Marianne's voice was full of supplication.

No, he won't fall for her childish pleas anymore.

"Just tell me one thing, Marianne," he thundered, "Just tell me, what was this all about in the end? A distraction? A ruse to make Rochefort jealous enough until he proposed?"

"How could you think that!" Marianne was appalled.

"I just can't explain it any other way. Can _you_?"  
"It's not.. I...My…" she stammered on her words. Where would she start? Her mind was racing. She felt a wave of panic engulfing her; she was cornered. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to compose her thoughts. A gesture Porthos took to be a symbol of defeat.  
"That's what I thought," he sneered triumphantly.  
"Please, just give me a moment to…"  
He shook his head fervently, "Spare me these girlish tricks, will you? I'm a musketeer of the King, not some naïve pansy of a provincial lord." 

So, she was just another number to him. How quick he was to judge her, to condemn her. How easily. And to think she had almost given herself to him just yesterday. To think that she had fooled herself into thinking that he cared for her, that he might have loved her. To think that she had felt safe with him, that she could trust him.

Marianne's eyes widened with fury and her body shook with indignation.

"What exactly do you take me for, _Monsieur le mousquetaire_?" she mocked disdainfully.

She approached him dangerously, closing the space in between them as she stood up to his level as far as she possibly could raise herself, her eyes blazing with rage. Marianne was small compared to him but in that moment, he couldn't help but feel slightly terrified. Her hair seemed to glow a shade redder, in keeping with her temper. But he could see that this was no ordinary anger that his teasing usually brought about. This mirrored the same emotion he was feeling: the one he couldn't quite grasp. She was hurting, something was hurting her. _He_ had hurt her.

They stood so close to each other, their breath mingling, their rage enveloping them in a wave of passion and raw desire. Marianne let out a gasp when Porthos aggressively pulled her waist to his and savagely kissed her, his tongue forcing its way through her mouth. Marianne almost gave in to her own desires, to the weight and the strength of this man. But with all the force she could muster, she pushed him off and slapped him with all the strength she had. That was the second time today that someone felt like they could take her by force. She would have expected this much from Rochefort, but not from Porthos. Was she to be abused by all the men that she knew?

Porthos reeled, his hand reflexively covering his cheek, fixing her with a look of disgust.

"I thought you were a man of honor!" she lashed out at him.

"Funny, because I thought you were an honorable woman," he retaliated.

Marianne fell back a few steps. Regret over their passionate encounter yesterday washed over her. Gerard was right. She had gone too far. Clearly, she had devalued herself in his eyes beyond reprieve.

"Really? After all the women you ever shared your bed with, it is_ me_ who comes out at the bottom. It is _me_ whom you treat like a lowly whore," she hurled at him. The violence of her temper shook him.

"I would never say such a thing," he snapped at her, "That's not what honor is for me, Marianne. It has nothing to do with that. I couldn't have cared less if you've slept with all the men in Paris. Honor is honesty, loyalty, integrity, being true to your word and to yourself. But clearly, you're none of those. So no, to me, you don't qualify."

Marianne suddenly felt cold. Any hesitation she might have had about her decision, any inkling to tell Porthos the truth, to give in to what she felt, completely vanished. Instead, all the love in her heart solidified in an instant and she felt like something in her broke.

"Then why did you waste your time with me?" she uttered bitterly, "Surely, there is no shortage of women for you to court."

"Do you know, I am really weary of hearing you bring this up over and over again. If you really cared, Marianne, my past shouldn't matter to you one bit."

"Is that so? So, it's alright for you to be jealous to the point of making an absolute fool of yourself in font of the Prince, but I'm expected to gloss over your shining history and pretend like it doesn't exist?"

"Yes!" he shouted, "Because that was the past. And I'm a man of my word. Unlike you, I would never betray you."

"You _never_ gave me your word on _anything_," she yelled back, "You would have been content to make me your mistress, for God's sake!"

"An unwise decision I have now come to see," he retorted. He turned his back to her.

Marianne held her breath.

That was it.

There was nothing else left to be said. With her head high, she turned around to leave.

"And for your information," he called after her.

"I was going to ask you to marry me before we left tonight. I would not have taken you as a mistress," he softened his tone, "but as my fiancé…"

"…and as my wife, if we had eloped," he finished. His back was still turned to her. He was holding back tears.

Marianne froze in place. _No_…She made the wrong decision. She moved too fast, gave in too quickly. The weight of it felt crushing on her chest. Everything was suddenly hopeless and bleak. All was lost. Any love that she had known over the last few days had departed her. Any hope she had of a happy life - everything opposite of her upbringing - vanished.

"Athos was right," muttered Porthos.

Behind the stables, Athos and Aramis were plastered to the walls, listening to Porthos and Marianne. Having heard loud noises a while ago, they had rushed to the scene only to find a lovers' quarrel, so they decided to eavesdrop.

Porthos intended that last phrase to himself, but his voice carried to all those listening; in essence, his friends and Marianne. Athos flushed and lowered his head as Aramis exhaled and crossed her arms over her chest. He knew she was glaring at him so he made sure to avoid her gaze.

Marianne felt sick.

"So, you let your friends think for you. I never took you for the most intelligent man in the world, Porthos, but at least I thought you knew your own mind. But it seems you're as impressionable and dumb as a lost child at a fair." With that, she delivered the dagger where it hurt him the most, right in his most vulnerable spot. She might as well have kicked him in between the legs.

Porthos shook uncontrollably with rage, he approached her with such fury she was sure he was going to strike her.

This was a side of him she had never seen before, a side she had never hoped to see. Of all the men in the world, she never believed Porthos could ever be violent or uncompassionate. He may look like a brute, but he was anything but. Was she wrong? Was that who he really was after all? The image of Maxim suddenly came back to haunt her. The shame and disappointment she had felt at herself for having allowed him to touch her, to strike her. Not anymore.

In a swift move, she unsheathed her dagger and held it to Porthos' neck. He could feel the cold sharp blade on his skin. Porthos froze in astonishment. No, she wouldn't dare.

Then, he saw something in her eyes he had never seen before, something he had never thought he would instigate in her: fear.

"Don't you dare touch me," she growled. They stood facing each other, their eyes locked with such raw intensity. The harder Marianne looked into his eyes, the more of a stranger he became to her.

"Put this away, it's not child's play," he spoke quietly but sternly.

Her hand trembled a great deal. He held his hand up to her arm to deflect it calmly. But as soon as he touched her, Marianne was startled as if a lightening bolt had struck her. She was quicker than him and switched the dagger to her other hand. Attempting to contain her, Porthos exercised his force and trapped both of her arms in his. He could feel her body shake violently. She struggled to release herself from him and in the confusion of the moment and his effort in exercising control not to hurt her, they wrestled until the dagger accidentally cut into Marianne's forearm.

Blood, warm and red, came gushing out, spilling all over her dress and on the floor. Horrified at the sight, Marianne shrieked. Porthos immediately released her, a look of horror on his face. What has he done?

Marianne turned on her heels and ran away like a wounded animal, clutching her arm.

...

Having heard the altercation, Athos and Aramis rushed to the scene, only to see Porthos standing with a dumbfounded expression on his face. At his feet were splashes of blood and he was holding the dagger in his hand.

No one spoken for a while.

Eventually, Porthos dropped the dagger and walked away, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Porthos," Aramis calls out to him, concerned.

He abruptly stopped and turned back to her violently, shortening the distance between them. He towered over her. His eyes glistened, but they turned on her in a fury. She felt he could crush her right then and there if he wanted to. She gulped and slightly backed down.

"Leave me be, Aramis. You've done enough!" he bellowed.

Athos gave her a sidelong glance before he followed Porthos into the hotel.

She trapped him by the arm and sharply demanded, "What exactly _did _you say to Porthos?"

"Only the truth."

"And what truth was that exactly, Athos?"

Athos took a deep breath. If he told her exactly what he had said, he will never hear the end of it. No, he will be smart about this. He will _omit_. He brought his hands together as if in a prayer and with a calm voice teetering on condescension, he spoke:

"Listen, Aramis. I know you care about Porthos. As do I. But this path, the one you and I have taken, just may not be for him."

Aramis crossed her hands over her chest.

"You loved Francois and he loved you with all the force and passion anyone can ever muster."

Aramis stiffened at the mention of Francois. Athos had never brought up Francois out of his own accord. What was he getting at?

"The truth is, you have never known betrayal in your life. You don't know what it feels like, how can you possibly understand?"

Was he mocking her or what?

"How dare you mention Francois' name?" she said through clenched teeth. Her eyes were ablaze.

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to make a point, I meant no offence."

"And you think how I felt after he was assassinated in cold blood was not enough? The pain of losing someone? Of knowing you were robbed of something too soon?"

"It's…different."

So now he was making light of it all?

She shook her head at him.

"I can't believe you, Athos."

He sighed in exasperation. "Look, are we done here? I just want to make sure Porthos is alright."

"Gerard kissed me," she blurted out. She was angry and she wanted to hurt him.

Athos grimaced.

"Why am I not surprised?"

She shook her head and looked away.

"To drive my point home, you can now see how you understand nothing of betrayal. You're only well-versed in committing it. You betrayed us when you lied about who you really were, you betrayed us for the Captain's position, and now this."

Without any prior notice, her fist violently met his face. He took a few steps back to reel and retaliate. It took a lot of self-composure for him not to strike her back. Instead, he approached her and imprisoned both her arms in his. They stood so close their lips almost touched.

"Classic. Using senseless violence in an argument. Recklessly losing your temper. I swear sometimes, I don't know if I'm with this Aramis or the sixteen-year old _girl, _or _boy_ I should say_,_ who came to join the musketeers eight years ago. But I won't indulge you, I have better things to do."

He released her from his grip. The pressure of his fingers on her wrists left red marks on them.

"Then maybe you should devote all your time to them because I have had enough." She fixed him with a cold stare.

He turned around and mirrored her glare.

"I assure you the feeling is mutual." With that, he walked away, leaving her behind.

Aramis stormed out of the garrison. Her chest felt tight. She could barely breathe and the bandages around her chest were digging into her ribs. What had just happened? Was it over between her and Athos? How did it get to that? She was about to descend into a dark abyss when a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows, catching her attention.


	21. Departures (Part I)

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 21: Departures (Part I)**

« Gerard! » Aramis exclaimed in surprise.

The young man stepped out fully from behind the corner and approached the musketeer. His heart skipped a beat. It was like the first time he was seeing her. Only now, he was seeing the woman behind the musketeer, not the man. Gerard wasn't attracted to women, at least not in that way, but he couldn't help but admire her mesmerizing beauty. How her hair fell to her back in golden ripples, how her intoxicating blue eyes glimmered in the light, and her body, how perfectly sculpted and muscular. How many years of hard training must have gone into that! He could still feel the warmth of her body underneath him, its suppleness, its tautness.

She blushed under his gaze. Despite the awkwardness of their last encounter, his intense gaze hadn't changed and it still electrified her. She could feel him almost undressing her with his eyes. She couldn't help but smile at how he must imagine her nude body as that of a man's. How often had she wished to be a man, had she spent nights in prayer hoping she would wake up with a man's body. How much easier life would have been!

But life has a way of demonstrating its irony in cruel ways, for despite Gerard's orientation and Aramis's sex, the chemistry between them was undeniable. It was just misplaced. And so, each of them stood facing the other with regrets over these uncontrollable circumstances that prevented them from translating the soulful connection they shared into a physical one.

"What are you doing here?" she broke the silence.

Gerard sighed, bringing his hand to his neck and absentmindedly massaging it.

"I've come to see you… to say goodbye," he spoke softly.

She had been completely taken by his eyes that she hadn't noticed he was carrying a small piece of luggage with him and was dressed for a voyage. His green eyes had a lovely shimmer in them. But the sadness in them seemed more accentuated than usual.

"I was also hoping you would accept my humble apologies," he continued sheepishly.

"Apologies?"

"You know, for what happened."

Gerard had nothing to apologize for. She blamed herself entirely for having led him on, for not having put a stop to it when she could, for having let her guard down, for having let her carnal desires take over her judgement.

"You don't have to…"

"I must. I would never have imposed myself in that…manner, had I known. That is, had I known you were a…well, you know. I beg your forgiveness," his voice betrayed the guilt he felt.

She smiled at him warmly, "I should have taken better care and been more… perceptive," she lowered her head slightly. Aramis never lowered her head to anyone but Gerard's sincerity and gallantry really touched her, to the point that she herself felt ashamed of her own conduct.

"Shall we say it is water under the bridge, then?" he grinned.

"Definitely," she stretched out her hand and he shook it. His touch was so tender. Their eyes shimmered in the light, engaging in an unspoken reciprocation of acknowledgement and respect for one another.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

Gerard sighed, "Ouf, I don't know, really. I have decided to travel around the continent but I haven't a destination in mind. I hear Italy is nice this time of year."

"It's hot," she grinned.

"Well, then, Switzerland it is!"

She laughed. An awkward silence followed.

Her face darkened a bit.

"Marianne was just here."

"Was she?" Gerard's tone grew icy.

Aramis nodded.

"So, it's done between them, then?" Aramis was surprised. Gerard and Marianne seemed so close; wouldn't she have told him?

"It seems so."

"Well, I guess she's made her choice after all."

"I thought she loved him," Aramis probed.

"I think we are all too familiar with the social restrictions imposed on young women in her position. It complicates things. Anyway, it is high time Marianne learned that the world doesn't revolve around her and her whims." The last sentence came out more bitterly than he intended.

Aramis scrutinized him. There was certainly more to the story that he was letting on.

"That's a rather cruel thing to say," she reproached him.

Gerard looked down. She was right.

"Forgive me. I've had a long night full of surprises. None of which were good," he sniggered.

She was intrigued.

"Is that why you're leaving?"

He nodded. "I have no place there anymore."

"What about Marianne?"

"Oh, she doesn't need me anymore. Marianne knows her own mind and she needs to learn to handle the consequences of her choices on her own. Her wedding is in a week and I would rather not attend that tragic event."

So, he didn't approve.

"But if Marianne had a choice, I'm surprised she had not chosen Porthos."

Gerard wasn't surprised by Marianne's decision. He had known Marianne his whole life to the point that his perceptions about her were immutable. He saw her through accustomed eyes, through a mindset that never truly evolved. A mindset that had become tainted of late.

To him, Marianne was naïve. She cared far too much about her passions and about her freedom than to let it all go to waste for a musketeer. As to the extent of her affections to Porthos, perhaps she did love him, but Gerard always had the impression that Marianne could not love anyone as much as she loved herself, and loved her freedom. And who could blame her, really? Other than securing their protection, the Comte assured him that Rochefort will be giving her her own workshop, that she will continue to do what she loved, that she will be commissioned at some point and held with high regard in court, albeit under a pseudonym. Was she and Rochefort ill-matched? Undoubtedly. What more, Rochefort was a man who would never indulge her. He was probably the only man she would be incapable of charming into anything. And if Marianne wanted to be selfish and did not have enough courage to stand her ground for what she believed in and if she truly loved Porthos and gave up the fight for him, then she deserved her soon-to-be husband and she needed to learn the consequences. He won't fight her battles for her anymore. He owed her nothing, he owed her family nothing. They had betrayed him. He was only a sounding board to her anyway. As soon as she found Porthos, she had neglected his existence entirely. Not to mention that she had insulted him on many occasions and publicly so. No, he was finished with this, finished with her.

"Marianne is still a girl. She lacks conviction and experience. It's hardly surprising." His tone was dry and hard. Aramis could tell something had happened between them. Was it a full moon? It seemed that everyone was falling out and apart.

But she thought Gerard was mistaken. In the short time that Aramis had known the Comtesse de Dandurand, she had come to see that this young lady was unlike many of the women her age and position. Contrary to what Gerard said, one of the first things Aramis remarked about Marianne was that she had an solid conviction in her own self and especially in her own mind. She thought for herself. She never let anyone dictate to her what she ought to say or do or think, much to the contradiction of the traditional indoctrination of women. Something Aramis knew all too well, something she had gladly escaped. It is precisely this quality that made Marianne so perfect for Porthos. For starters, her comrade hated making decisions. Planning and strategizing were not his strong suit. He was of a grounded nature and he lived for the excitement of the moment. Porthos dwelled in the present and the present only. He reaped the benefits it offered him in terms of pleasure and sensualities. But there was always the danger of shallowness and falling in excess in living this lifestyle. He needed someone in his life to direct him, to give him a sense of meaning beyond what was in front of him. Athos often filled that role for him. _Ugh, Athos…_

But there was also something else about Marianne that had left an impression on Aramis: she possessed an absolute sense of entitlement. Whereas other people found this quality off-putting, attributing it to a spoiled upbringing, Aramis knew that were Marianne a man, that would not be regarded as anything unusual. When Marianne wanted something, she pursued it with such undeterred tenacity. It was not difficult to tell that Marianne adored Porthos, that she was hopelessly in love with him, that she wanted to be with him more than anything. And yet, she had chosen differently. Why? It must have been a calculated decision and as such, her reasons had to be grave and rightly warranted. But how can she ever explain that to Porthos? To get through his male pride first was an ordeal in and of itself. Aramis felt thoroughly frustrated.

"I take it you didn't say goodbye to her?"

Gerard stared out onto the horizon. The sun was setting and it was proving to be a captivating sunset. He shook his head. "It's for the best."

She searched his eyes for more clues, only to find more sadness and confusion in them. Whatever happened, it was not for her to know, at least not now. She decided not to pursue it.

"Well, thank you again for your help with the machine. It's unfortunate we never found the seal of its maker," she casually spoke, in an attempt to change the subject.

Gerard's palms began to sweat. He swallowed with difficulty. _How unfortunate indeed!_ The guilt enveloped him. But he had intended on making things right. Just not at this moment.

"And we never found out what Rameau was up to. The convention is over now and nothing has happened. I assume whatever plan he had was foiled somehow," she went on.

Gerard was about to say something about Rameau, but he couldn't without exposing the Comte's involvement in the Iron Mask's organization. He promised himself to speak up about it, but maybe not yet.

He put his hands in his pockets and looked away from her.

"Perhaps he found it too difficult with all the heightened security due to the presence of the musketeers," he winked and smiled sheepishly.

"Well it certainly wasn't the presence of the Red Guard that discouraged him!" They both laughed.

"I must be off. But before I forget, I have something for you."

He fumbled in his pockets and produced a few sheets of parchment neatly folded together and sealed.

"Promise me you won't open these until you're well out of Paris."

She nodded. What an odd request, though. It didn't matter anyway, they were due to leave shortly and she wouldn't have the time.

"Well, goodbye, Aramis." He turned around to leave when, as if completely out of her own control, she held him back by the arm.

Her eyes were glistening. She looked so forlorn, so lost, so full of despair. He could feel her body tremble.

No, she didn't want him to leave. He had become her friend, her confidante. Aramis never had a confidante. She never knew what a confidante felt like until Gerard. Someone to freely speak with, to tell one's deepest darkest feelings to, someone to share stories with, honestly and unreservedly. For six years, she was alone, confined by her secret and suffering in silence until her heart bled with loneliness. How often had she wished for someone's company, while she lay in her cold bed alone, in the sole company of her tears. How often had she wished to tell her comrades her secret so that she can finally be free, so that she can finally taste what it felt like to be truly close to someone. Then, once the secret was out, she wasn't as relieved as she thought she would be. Things had gotten complicated.

And now that she had finally found someone, it was being taken away from her. This seemed to be a running theme in her life. Every time happiness and love found her, or a meaningful relationship came her way, something would tear it all apart and shake her world upside down. Maybe she was destined for misery.

"Athos and I… we….," her voice shook. She swallowed with difficulty, trying to suppress the lump forming in her throat. _What a despicable display, Aramis_! She reproached herself.

Gerard knew exactly now in what capacity Aramis saw him. She didn't need to tell him. He could sense her loneliness, her plight, her tragic existence. If he hadn't fallen in love with the musketeer Aramis, if yesterday hadn't happened, if it still wasn't too raw for him, he would have gladly and happily lain himself down at her feet. Alas, it was too fresh, too soon and his own heart wasn't able to handle his own heartbreak. Let alone to take on the heartbreak of someone he cared for. But seeing her like this made him miserable. He couldn't walk away. He couldn't leave her like this.

He cupped her face in his hands.

"Look at me," he said.

She lifted her eyes to his. They appeared a deep green in the dimming light, a color that so reminded her of the forests in Noisy-le-sec, of a time long gone. Of a happy time, a better time. She was about to break but he held her firmly.

He put his forehead to hers and whispered to her, "You are the strongest woman I have ever known and will ever know in my life. You are a warrior, a goddess, a lioness and above all, do you know what you are?"

She sniffled gently and shook her head, as she dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hands.

He held her hands in his and kissed them gently before locking her gaze again.

"You are a musketeer of the King and not just any musketeer. You are the fiercest soldier in all the land and _no one_, I mean _no one_, not even Athos, can take that away from you."

She felt her whole body reverberate with his words. They struck her like a gong strikes a bell, resonating through her body with such energizing ripples. He was right.

Her body reflexively straightened out. Her eyes glowed with pride and tenacity. Watching that transformation was an ethereal experience for Gerard. Oh, how he wished things were different…! How he longed to possess this fierce and powerful creature. Man or woman, he didn't care in this moment. It was her spirit that spoke to him, her soul that reached out to his.

He knew she was vulnerable and he would never dream of exploiting that. Instead, he gave in to _her_. He didn't stop her.

She brought her lips to his. Just one last taste…

Their lips met with such passion and tenderness, each desiring a part of the other that was inaccessible and completely absent. But in the heat of the moment and the vulnerability and entrenchment of their souls, they sought it out, allowing their fantasies to take hold one last time.

Their tongues danced emphatically and their bodies melted so naturally into one another in perfect resonance. Their spirits united in another realm. We can only escape reality for a short time before its chains of disillusionment pull us back to where we are. When the dust from their forlorn illusion settled, they gently disengaged.

He planted a tender kiss on her forehead as he pressed her close to him one last time. She could feel the moisture of his tears on his face.

"Perhaps in another life," he whispered. "Goodbye, my beautiful Aramis."

She stared longingly after him as he walked off into the sunset, taking with him the last shreds of this odd fantasy while giving her back all the strength and resilience she needed.

"Perhaps in another life," She echoed. She turned around and with her head held high, walked towards the stables. Duty awaits and she was, after all, the best musketeer in all the realm. She grinned to herself as she mounted her mare, awaiting her comrades. Upright and proud, a queen on her throne. She was unshakeable.

play soundtrack "Bad Girls" by M.I.A


	22. Abandoned

L'amante de Porthos

Chapter 22: Abandoned

_"Do you understand what I'm saying, child?"_

_The child stared at the man with eyes wide open. She was mute. He was exasperated, exhausted._

_He exhaled profoundly._

_"They have gone to Heaven, my child. Do you understand?"_

_He was on his knees, leveling with this little red-haired orphan. She nodded slowly._

_"Good. You will live with me now until you are married."_

_He looked in her eyes searchingly, but she only looked back at him with a void expression. His mind questioned whether she truly grasped the gravity of the situation but in his soul, his broken soul, he knew she understood as well as he, and that her silence contained a grief so profound and so dark, so beyond her comprehension it was paralyzing. _

_He rose and left the room._

_The child looked down at her feet, closely clutching her doll to her chest. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak, she couldn't understand. The room was cold and this place was dark and unpleasant. This place, that was to become her new home. Her home until she was married, that is._

_"Marianne," came a shaky voice through the half-opened door._

_The owner of the voice was a child not much bigger than her. He ran over to her and embraced her with all the force his tiny body possessed. His body felt so warm, so welcoming. But not long after, he started to tremble, he was weeping and she could feel his tears moistening her hair. _

_"Papa…" he called out through his tears._

_She unclasped her doll and wrapped her arms around him, to comfort him. His grief touched her soul, where she wept silently. They fell asleep on the floor, tightly holding onto each other for dear life._

_After that, and for every night until he was eleven years old and she was nine, he would sneak into her room every night and they would sleep in each other's arms, Marianne wiping away his tears and him chasing away the nightmares that made her scream at night. _

_"I will never leave you, even if the stars were to fall down from the heavens," he would always say before lulling her back to sleep._

Marianne sat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, her back propped up against the simple bed that he had slept in for the past week.

She stared at her left arm where the blood had dried, staining the tissue she had torn from her dress to wrap it in. After her altercation with Porthos, she had run hysterically through the streets of Paris, stopping like a madwoman to ask for directions to the Cardinal's Residence, eliciting looks of pity or suspicion.

She needed him. She was in despair and he was the only one who could comfort her. By the time she reached the residence, she ran to the guest servants' quarters and barged into his room unceremoniously, stopping in the doorway, her hand clasping her chest, trying to catch her breath.

But the room was empty. There was no sign of him except for a stack of empty notebooks on the desk. Was she in the wrong room? Certainly not, she had been here enough times. She stepped out just to check again.

Her chest started to heave and her heart was pounding louder than ever. She knew. She knew in her heart. She could feel his absence in her soul before she even entered his room. A coldness penetrated her being, making its way through her flesh and settling in her bones. She shivered.

She crossed the room towards the bureau, where she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass: her hair had come undone and dishevelled, her dress was stained with blood, her face was positively yellow with dark circles under the eyes, and a look of insanity marked her features. _Ugly_.

_"Stay still, I'm not finished yet!" he scolded her._

_"We have been at this for hours, get on with it already!" she whined._

_He was fifteen and she was thirteen._

_"A few more minutes…"_

_"Gerard, are you finished yet?"_

_He sighed, "Not entirely, but here, you can look."_

_She jumped up from the chair and came up behind him. Her eyes widened._

_"Do you like it, then?" he asked timidly._

_She took his canvas and crassly threw it on the floor and screamed, "I hate it! It's not me."_

_He was shocked, "What on earth? Of course it's you! What do you think I have been sketching for hours?" he yelled back._

_"It's a lie! This is someone else. Someone beautiful and attractive. Are you mocking me?"_

_He looked at his artwork, mercilessly discarded to the floor, unsure whom to feel sadder for._

_"You're the prettiest girl in my eyes and that will never change no matter what you say, whether you want to believe it or not. But I hope you will. Because you are."_

_She looked up at him, her lips trembling, her chest moving up and down with her irregular breath._

_She stomped her feet and looked away, "But my red hair, my odd nose, my dull eyes and my disproportionate exasperating roundness! How will I ever become a lady looking like this!"_

_He smiled tenderly at her, "You're beautiful, no matter what. Believe that."_

_..._

_Porthos was going to marry her_. She would have been on her way with him right now, spending the night in his arms, reveling in his love, happy and carefree.

Was this Hell? Was Rochefort her punishment? He had forced himself on her today and that was only the preview of what was to come. Her uncle said that he would give her a workshop and the freedom to continue her pursuits, but she really doubted it.

In a fortnight, her body would belong to him. He could do whatever he pleased with her. Her wealth would belong to him. Her whole life would be his. He would decide things for her from now on, however it suited him. He could lock her up and have mistresses. And after he bed her a few times, she will undoubtedly carry his child and give birth to a loveless child born out of her consent. Conjugal, yes, but tarnished.

She swallowed with difficulty, determined to smash the glass. They always warned that seven years of bad luck would follow the person who broke a looking glass. How ironic! Her entire life was already cursed, what were seven years more?

And then she saw it. There placed on the desk ever so casually with her name inked on it.

As she opened it, her hand flew to her mouth. A shrill noise pierced the room, startling her. What terrified was that the noise came from within the depths of her gut. As she read those few lines, everything around her seemed to move around in circles. Her body shook violently and she grasped the wooden bureau to stabilize herself. Her chest felt like it was going to explode. She was struggling for air, taking a few gulps at a time, unable to stop, she was seizing. She collapsed to the floor where she lay there for a while as the last glimmers from the light outside completely disappeared. The sun had set and black clouds were gathering in a storm. There was no more light. Only darkness.

...

_She cried out in frustration and threw the notebook on the floor. Her writing desk was surrounded by parchment that were rolled up into bunches and discarded._

_"How about a walk?"_

_"I can't."_

_"Come on, you've been at it for days now. You have barely slept."_

_"I don't care. I have to find the solution to this ridiculous problem," she bellowed, more at the paper than at him, "Just leave me alone."_

_"No."_

_He pulled her up by the elbow forcefully and dragged screaming out of the room, finally pushing her outside the door onto the grass where she unceremoniously fell down._

_"You're a monster!" she yelled. That was last year. These words injured him beyond anything. They were words of bullies and of enemies. Why didn't just he tell her about Maxim and what he did? He loathed to see her with him. She was irritable, constantly angry, moody and aggressive._

_He couldn't contain himself so he pushed her. She got up and punched him in the stomach. He bent over but quickly recovered himself and pulled her hair. She screamed as she fell back. He caught her in time and then let her fall down to the ground._

_"You bastard!" she yelled and lunged at him. They wrestled until he pinned her down underneath him. Her sleeve was torn in their altercation and his eyes widened with horror at what her bare arms revealed. Bruises, blue and black tainting the purity of her skin._

_She quickly put her other arm to cover it up but he was stronger than her. He pinned both her hands to the floor, in a humiliating position, exposing her shame completely._

_"Explain this to me," he was harsh and icy._

_Her eyes glistened. She looked away from him._

_"EXPLAIN NOW! DID HE DO THIS?" he bellowed._

_"Let me go, Gerard!"_

_"ANSWER ME!"_

_"You won't understand!" she yelled back at him, "How can you understand? You have never been in love!"_

_"This?! This isn't love, Marianne! And it is not a real man who does this to a woman. Do you understand this?"_

_"It was just a game, now let me go."_

_They exchanged looks of anger and confusion before he reluctantly relaxed his grip and released her._

She held the parchment between her fingers with her injured hand her while the other one gently stroked the wound.

"_It is time we let go. I wish you all the happiness in your new life. I shan't return._"

That was all he wrote. After all those years.

She was now completely deserted and abandoned. Worse, no one loved her anymore.

His departure severed all the threads holding her to her childhood. With this final abandonment, her innocence departed her and the last remnants of her girlhood vanished, leaving behind the unwelcome sobriety of adulthood that has a way of sneaking up on its victim like a serpent, injecting its poison of disillusionment and harsh reality.

Her heart constricted and ached. The memories of the past week flooded her with such a devastating force. These memories that brought her so much joy not even a day ago, now caused her such agony as she had never known before.

This emptiness felt stifling. She could barely breathe. What now?

If she ran away, someone else will undoubtedly misuse her or rape her. She might become a prostitute. Or she might die in a terrible way. There were no options anymore. Just walls and darkness and death.

_Death._

Yes, that was a way out. But even that, Porthos had taken back the dagger he had given her, the only weapon she had by which she could execute this definitive decision she had arrived to with such cold-bloodedness.

Porthos, who detested her, who loathed her, who used her, who discarded her so easily.

Her heart ached once more. She still loved him.

She looked out the window, mulling over other ideas.

Suddenly, the blood in her veins froze, she was shaken violently out of this somber reality. Her heart began to beat again, fast and loud. There, just outside the window, she saw them.

They moved stealthily in the dark: Men dressed in black with masks covering half their faces. Six or seven of them and then, the sight that terrified her beyond description: their leader. A man, bigger and taller than the rest whose face was covered entirely in a mask made of iron with two red slits for the eyes and one red slit for the mouth. They were here.


	23. Departures (Part II: Flight)

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 23: Departures (Part II: Flight)**

As stealthy as they were, Marianne could hear their hurried footsteps in the corridor. They all walked in the same manner, as if they were dancers with perfectly choreographed steps. Except for one. Their leader, she could only assume, walked with such decidedness his heavy heels clicked with such commanding presence on the cold stone floors. They were the footsteps of someone who didn't need to be discrete, of someone who didn't need to hide. He was simply fearless.

"Check the rooms, make sure no one is here," came his authoritative muffled voice.

The door flew open to Gerard's room, letting in two men. Marianne could see their legs from under the bed where she hid. Her heart pounded with such ferocity she was sure it was going to give her away. But she might be dead before then because she was sure it was going to explode in her chest first. She kept her hands clasped tightly to her heart as if to muffle it. They lingered in the room for a bit.

"There's no one in the rooms. Everyone left the convention already," a familiar raspy voice wafted from the corridor.

"You never know what lurks in the shadows."

The other man scoffed and began to walk away, "You're wasting your time. We need to get our soon-to-be-guests before these insolent Red Guards wake up from their slumber."

Why did that sound like he may have meant her? And Why was that voice so familiar? She could almost see its owner through her mind's eye but she was bogged down by fright she was completely unable to think.

...

She remained hidden under the bed for at least fifteen more minutes before she crawled out after ensuring it was all quiet. She poked her head out into the corridor. They were gone. Her gaze went to the stairs at the end of the hallway. They had clearly gone upstairs; she could hear them from under the bed.

The decision should have been easy. Anyone with even a hint of common sense would have turned around and ran out for their dear life. Ran out and away, far far away. But something reeled her in. Was she worried about her uncle? Was it the terror taking over her body, disabling her faculties completely? Maybe. Perhaps it was the despair she had been drowning in not an even an hour ago. The deep despair that renders folly those with nothing to lose.

Ah, but it was something else, something familiar and dangerous: curiosity.

She had to know. Who were they? Why were they here? What business did they have with her uncle?

And so, with a blind courage, Marianne picked up her skirts and followed them upstairs. She went through a secret passage that Gerard had shown her, ending up behind a tapestry in the corridor of their suite.

She could hear footsteps and a kerfuffle coming from the direction of her room. The corridor was completely dark except for a strip of light coming from her uncle's chambers. The door was wide open.

Glued to the wall, she advanced a few steps so she could hear.

"I gave you a choice and plenty of time to reflect, Paul-Francois. I have come to collect." _That familiar voice again…_

"A choice?" her uncle sneered, "Lose the pleasantries, will you?"

"Stall as much as you like, my men have infiltrated the residence and are currently 'escorting' your niece from her bedroom."

The Comte stiffened. Marianne could almost hear the suspense in the room. She was expecting him to gasp, to yell, to ask them to release her, even though she wasn't actually a captive. Instead, he retorted with a cold and calculated reply.

"You're too late Rameau. She is the wife-to-be of the Comte de Rochefort. Touch one hair on her head and you will either die by his sword, or a slow, painful and publicly humiliating death. And I don't think he's the merciful sort. And to commit this crime under the Cardinal's nose, no less."

_The Comte de Rameau! Maxim's father. Of course!_

The rumours were true, then! He _was_ an accomplice. Marianne's eyes widened with horror. Was Maxim also an accomplice? Was he a part of this? It can't be! He was a bully, surely, but not a full-on criminal. Although, what was the difference? After everything he did to her and especially to Gerard… _Gerard_. _Where are you?_ Her heart twisted in on itself.

In the room, Rameau looked disdainfully at the Comte. That was indeed a problem. Rochefort was a problem. Rochefort, who had persistently investigated him for years, who had publicly insulted him not too long ago and then had the audacity to set one of his guards to follow him and keep tabs on him during the convention. The consolation in all of this was that Rochefort's men were idiots. How easily he was able to lose the man spying on him and then to dispense with the guards around the servants' gate to sneak in his little army.

"Very well then, you leave me no choice. Cease him."

_No!_ Marianne put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She was about to barge into the room by some mad force when her uncle's words froze her in place.

"Do what you will, Rameau. You can kill me but you will never get the weapon you want."

_Weapon? Since when does he make weapons? They never make weapons. They were inventors, philosophers, intellectuals…Pacifists. _

"Oh, I don't mean to kill you, dear fellow. But I will still need your niece to give you some encouragement. By the time Rochefort and his silly guard find you both, the weapon will be built and I will gladly put it to the test in disposing of you both along with him and his guard altogether. It'll be quite the show."

Eyes wide with horror, the Comte began to slowly back into the wall, trying to find some secret passageway to escape from.

"Seize him!" Rameau repeated.

"No!" Exclaimed the Comte as a pair of powerful arms grabbed him. He looked into those red slits of his assailant, as if hoping to glimpse some shred of humanity or identity behind them.

"I'll go with you willingly, but leave Marianne out of this! Please, I beg you."

So, her uncle hadn't sold her after all. He really _was_ trying to protect her.

"It's too late, Paul-Francois. I can hear my men coming back from her chambers. We made sure she would be unconscious so as not to cause any disturbance."

Sure enough, she could see figures coming out of her bedroom and spilling into the corridor.

"_No_…" The Comte moaned. He was in pain, she could tell. In agony at the thought of something happening to her. He cared. After all these years, he actually cared. Something stirred in the depths of her soul.

She was about to bolt to his aid when she felt a creased hand clasp on her mouth and a pair of lanky arms pulling her back across the length of the wall and taking her to the secret exit behind the tapestry where she had come from. Completely taken by surprise, Marianne barely had time to react or to resist until the door behind her closed. She turned around, ready to attack or defend herself.

...

Her assailant didn't move. As if he was allowing her time to adjust her eyesight to the darkness around her. She squinted at him and her body immediately relaxed when she recognized who it was.

"Monsieur Lemay!" Marianne exclaimed. It was none other than the elderly gentleman inventor Marianne had stopped to speak to in the convention. He was the only person who ever visited them, even if his visits were sparse and far in-between. He was also in on Marianne's secret; he would always bring her the latest books and articles in circulation then spend hours discussing the recent developments in astronomy.

"I thought everyone had left," she whispered. He grasped her hand gently once more and began leading her down the passage.

"I delayed at the request of your uncle."

"My uncle…" Marianne abruptly stopped, "I must go back. They were going to take him."

He trapped her arm with such strength it was difficult to believe that it had come from his small and frail figure.

"No, my child. You must leave. Now."

"I can't… My uncle…"

"Paul-Francois knows how to take care of himself, do not concern yourself."

Take care of himself? He was an inventor, a recluse who had never touched a sword in his life… or had he? Suddenly she realized: she knew nothing of him, of his life before her, of her family, of her parents…

"Monsieur, who are these people?"

"They are a group of Anarchists. The Iron Mask is their leader now. He wasn't always. They always have different leaders and they take different forms but he's been at the helm for many years now."

"_The_ Iron Mask? I thought he died! The Musketeers finished him on Belle-Isle!" The face of Porthos briefly floated in her mind. Porthos valiantly fighting these men and risking his life. Her musketeer, her knight in shining armour. Her chest tightened once more.

"Die? Unfortunately, the Iron Mask never dies. If one dies, another will come shortly after. Come now, here we are. We have to make a run for it." They had reached an exit that led outside.

The rain had started pouring, punctuated by flashes of lightening and hammers of thunder. Marianne couldn't help but think of Thor, the God of Thunder, in the Norse mythology. Would he be a friend or a foe for her in this situation? Would this storm be a cover or an obstacle leading to her demise?

They ran under the cover of darkness until they finally reached the stables.

"Here, climb on this horse." He helped her up on a grey mare.

"So, you're saying that this isn't the same Iron Mask?" insisted Marianne.

"It's unlikely," he continued while fixing her saddle.

"What does my uncle have to do with this?"

"That, my child, is a very excellent question and a very long tale."

Marianne looked at him imploringly for answers. Didn't she deserve to know why her life was threatened?

He exhaled. There was no time for this. "He's not a bad man, my dear. He only made some wrong decisions in his life. All in the name of love. And in the name of protecting you."

What a strange thought. That her uncle was capable of love.

"I'm not sure we're talking of the same person," she sniggered.

He smiled at her and took off one of his gloves. He removed one of his rings and held it up to her. It was a silver ring with a large emblem of the fleur-de-lys. But this wasn't an ordinary fleur-de-lys. It was flanked by a sword on the left and a quill on the right. There was an inscription on the inside but she wasn't able to make it out in the absence of light.

"Take this. Keep it with you at all times and you will find help wherever you seek it." With that, he took the reins of the horse and led it towards the gate that he opened. He poked his head around. There was no one here.

"Aren't you coming?"

"No, my child, I must go to your uncle."

"But…"

Before Marianne could say anything, a chilling voice pierced the darkness.

"Going somewhere?"

A flash of lightning in its direction made him even more terrifying. He looked bigger up-close, stronger, bulkier, taller. The metal encasing his face gleamed repeatedly in the light, the red slits in it exuded such a sinister presence, as if he was the Devil himself.

Marianne gasped with terror.

"I won't let you touch her!" cried Lemay and pulled out a sword, "Go, child, go!"

But she was frozen.

...

_"It's easy, Marianne. You just have to squeeze a little with your thighs and then you move with it in the same rhythm."_

_Marianne groaned, "That's easy for you to say, Gerard, you're much taller and stronger than I am."_

_"It doesn't matter. Size and strength are not determinants of your riding capability. You must become one with the horse. The animal becomes an extension of yourself. Think of a centaur."_

_She was hesitant. He held the reins. As long as he held the reins, she felt safe. _

_"You won't let go?"_

_"I won't."_

_A mischievous smile danced on his face all of a sudden and she knew he was going to let go. In an instant, he slapped the horse's behind and it went galloping through the fields with its clumsy rider screaming at the top of her lungs until she finally lost control and fell. _

_"Your first fall! Congratulations! It gets better you'll see."_

"Go, child, go," cried Lemay.

"I can't…" Marianne murmured. She was unable to move.

The Iron Mask laughed. Yes, he laughed. In amusement, it seems. But what a chilling laugh, it made Marianne's blood grow cold.

"Come down and I won't hurt you." He pushed aside Lemay and approached her.

He extended his arm to her. An odd gesture, very gentleman-like. For a long moment, it felt like everything went quiet and still and only her and this man existed. She stared into these red slits, searchingly. There was something seductive about them, something beckoning.

He didn't move. He didn't try to force her. He didn't come any closer – at least not yet. As if he was waiting on her and he was already sure she was going to obey.

"I…" she muttered.

"No!" Lemay screamed, attacking the Iron Mask from behind. Anticipating his move, the Iron Mask reluctantly tore his eyes away from Marianne and turned around to face his assailant, pulling out his own sword in the process.

Lemay smiled to himself. He took the bait.

The thunder clacked as the swords clashed together. Dumbfounded, Marianne simply watched. He was agile, skilled and above all, powerful. Lemay didn't stand a chance against him. But the latter knew that.

He fought him as much as he could until he succeeded in regaining his position at Marianne's side. Seeing as how she was incapable of moving, he had to take matters into his own hands even if it cost him his life. And it did. For the sword of the Iron Mask penetrated his abdomen.

Marianne screamed and her horse whinnied. Before Lemay succumbed to the ground, he gathered his last bit of strength and struck the horse on the rear. The Iron Mask jumped to grasp the reins but Lemay pierced his arm with his sword before he completely collapsed. The horse jumped, Marianne's thighs gripped tightly and off it went in a hysterical gallop carrying with it a rider who had no sense of bearing or skill in riding. So, the horse did what it had to: it took control over its rider and it set its own course to the last place it had known safety; the place where it was born and bred.

The Iron Mask stood in the rain, clutching his wounded arm and staring after the rider. This was his fault. He was too soft and now she escaped. Next time, he will show no mercy.


	24. Coping

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 24: Coping**

_[Erratum: in an earlier chapter, I had indicated that Marianne's wedding to Rochefort will take place in a week's time from the engagement. For better flow of the story, I have now changed that to a month from the engagement. In other words, a month from the evens of the last chapter.]_

_Two weeks later…_

**Porthos**

Athos took a sip of his ale while keeping a close eye on his friend across the table. Porthos was already on his seventh, having already consumed an entire bottle of wine as an appetizer.

"It wets the palate, you know," he would say.

In front of them were the remnants of what had been a sumptuous feast fit for five people, but it had only been devoured by Porthos alone. To complete the picture, two attractive young women, each with a generously displayed full bosom were lounging on either side of the colossus while he wrapped his big arms around both of them. Usually, Porthos animatedly told stories that were humorous, full of adventure and funny mishaps. But tonight, he was being obnoxiously arrogant, loud and rambunctious, eliciting some hateful remarks from some of the other guests at the inn.

To an outsider, this image might only look like a typical day in a musketeer's life, but to Athos, this was an alarming display on the part of his friend. He twirled his mug around with his masculine long fingers. Could Porthos have really been in love? Athos thought – or maybe hoped – that it was just a passing fancy. They had known each other for more than a decade, a time during which he had seen his friend flit in and out from one woman's bed to another. Certainly, he had declared himself in love once or twice, but it was never a true sentiment. Rather, a shallow expression confused with lust, for it wasn't long until Porthos was bored and moved on to the next thing. These transitions usually occurred seamlessly, without any rough patches and always with good humor.

But this, this was different. At first, he chose to ignore it. But it's been days now and it was only getting worse.

They had ridden off on their mission on that sordid day, with Aramis in the lead. What should have been an easy and quick route, turned into a series of long unpleasant stops that were hellish to endure under the circumstances. The silence between them could be cut by a knife. Each preferred to be anywhere else except in the company of each other. And during the silence, each one of them stewed in their own carefully constructed and guarded pot of misunderstandings, misconceptions, indignations, anger and heartbreak.

As usual, Porthos was the one to cut the silence but it was only to insist on which auberge to stop at and then to argue with Aramis when she resisted any plans to stop, favoring to continue on as far as they could. Relief from this hell came from finishing this mission as fast as possible so she can disengage from the unpleasant company of her companions. But to Porthos, relief was found in the hedonistic pursuits offered by alcohol, a good meal and the company of women. As much and as many as those, as possible.

The taste of love had lingered bitterly in his mouth, and he needed something to sweeten his palate.

And so, in this spirit, Porthos would walk into an auberge, consume massive amounts of food to the point of emptying the kitchen stock, drink all the alcohol he could possible afford and then for dessert, he would select the company of the most promiscuous woman available. One at first, and then two, and then more. His friends lost count.

On the days after these obscene excesses, his companions would have to drag his heavy and intoxicated body onto his horse and ride at a trot until sobriety came to him and he was able to increase the pace. Unfortunately, his sobriety always came at the expense of a disgusting spectacle in which the giant hurled out the contents of last night's debauchery onto the side of the road.

As bad as they thought this situation was, it began to get worse. While the other two preferred silence, Porthos became loud and grouchy, expressing his unease and displeasure at the slightest thing with such colorful vulgarity that bothered even Athos.

Then, it started. This sweet and loveable giant was becoming the brute everyone always imagined him to be at first sight. He became rough and aggressive with the aubergistes in his demands, intolerant to the other guests, and even more offensive towards his friends, Aramis in particular. His verbal aggression gradually translated into threats against those who annoyed him. This colossus, who always kept himself mindful of his own strength and his own physical prowess, had no more inhibitions.

Whether it was the constant presence of alcohol in his system or his state of mind, he began physically assaulting those who got in his way and engaging in several fights along the road, whilst declaring to all that he was the Mighty Musketeer Porthos, to the utter humiliation of his regiment and especially his companions who did their best to try to contain him and mitigate these situations. It was thus not uncommon on this journey that they were thrown out of one auberge and sought refuge in another, only to be denied by the aubergiste – something that would rally the rage of Porthos once again.

If Athos had been angry at Aramis, his anger had quickly subsided, replaced by an instinctive protectiveness towards her. However, on her end, Aramis was taciturn with both of them, cold and glacial, only focused on her mission. Exactly how she had intended things to be between them when she first joined the musketeers. Alas, the ties of friendship had reeled her in at the time. But the three musketeers now seemed… faded, worn out and torn apart.

...

**Athos**

Athos was startled by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Unthinkingly, his hand instinctively covered the woman's hand with such tenderness. Startled by his own gesture, he suddenly realized that this wasn't his Aramis. A quick glance from the corner of his eye confirmed to him that in fact, Aramis was still sitting across from him. He turned around to see a young pretty brunette with green eyes batting her eye lashes at him.

"Would you like some company tonight, monsieur?" she sang.

"Uhh…" he glanced again at Aramis, whose eyes glazed icily with disgust.

Athos blushed. Certainly, he did not. He had no desire for any woman since they left Paris and if he did, he would not dare to fulfill his desires in the presence of Aramis.

"Well, don't mind me," Aramis spoke frigidly.

He watched as she chugged down the rest of her drink, rose and stormed out, swearing under her breath.

"Aramis…" he called out feebly after her. He turned to the young lady, "Not tonight, ma chère, forgive me."

She scoffed and left.

"Come on, Athos!" Porthos teased him, "She was gorgeous and easy." This declaration made the women with him shift with awkwardness. _Easy_? They were used to being called many things by men but it always stung a bit.

Athos was affronted by the mere suggestion. How could Porthos even think such a thing while Aramis was with them?!

"Ahhh, it's about Aramis. Look, _he_ will never notice. You don't need to tell _him_ anything," he kept emphasizing the male pronouns while theatrically winking. Clearly, he was inebriated.

"Arrêtez, Porthos," Athos icily retorted.

Porthos leaned back, rudely removing his arms from around his prostitutes, accidently elbowing one of them. He didn't seem to notice, though. He leaned over the table.

"Look, Athos, she told you she doesn't want you anymore. And clearly you feel the same. You don't need her and she actually had the decency to leave and not watch over you like a jealous hawk. You're a free man! So, go be a man and take that little "câtin" to your room and amuse yourself a bit."

The table with its contents shook violently as the fists of Athos pounded it.

"That's enough, Porthos! Aramis is still our friend and comrade-in-arms first and foremost, don't you dare cross that line."

"Oh? Well, she's not my friend anymore," replied the giant nonchalantly, undisturbed by his friend's outburst.

"What are you talking about? Of course, she's your friend." Athos was incredulous.

"Friends don't lead friends into heartbreak and awful situations. Friends look out for each other. Like you were looking out for me when you warned me about Maria-, that is, that little pest. I should have listened to you. Which, I owe you an apology for by the way," he raised his glass to his friend.

Athos' eyes gleamed with fury. He looked away. What had he done? He was disgusted with Porthos, with his demeanour, his language, his excess. But really, he was mostly disgusted with himself. He reclined back in his chair, sipping his drink, continuing to watch his friend.

Memories of his own heartbreak came back to haunt him. Nights of complete drunkenness, debauchery of the highest levels, abuse of certain illusion-inducing substances, the feelings of despair and the loss of the willingness to live, to fight for something worthwhile. Was that how it looked from the outside? No, he was sure it wasn't. He had been much worse that Porthos.

Surely, what Milady, or Anne, did to him was much worse than Marianne. He couldn't help but compare the two, although he was beginning to see that that was futile. They were different people, and starkly so. One was born evil and the other was just… what was she, really? He suddenly regretted not having spent more time with her. He would have known her better, judged her better and seen whether she really was fit for his friend or not. Instead and once again, he was blinded by his past and he projected it all on Porthos, choosing to misjudge a woman before he even knew her.

He slammed the table with his fist again when a realization came to him. _Goddammit!_

Of course, Porthos was in love. He was as in love with Marianne de Dandurand as Olivier de la Fère was in love with Anne. Otherwise, the image of this young couple wouldn't have had such a strong impact on Athos. The beginnings of young love always looked the same: sweet and innocent, happy and delicious, seductive and satisfying, offering a life and a future full of promise and undying devotion. _Happily ever after_. He scoffed to himself.

But what right did he have to impose his own bitter end on Porthos? What if it had turned out differently for his friend? Was he now complicit in ruining his friend's happiness? Despite all the unease he felt about Marianne, he had to admit that there was something suspicious about this whole Rochefort business. _Anything_ concerning Rochefort was suspicious for that matter. Although Athos didn't think too kindly of Marianne, he knew she was the only antidote to end this horrid version of Porthos and send him packing to the deep dark hellish abyss from which he came.

Then a strange thought crossed his inebriated mind: if he had seen himself as the young Comte de la Fère falling in the arms of the devious Anne in the relationship of Porthos and Marianne, what did Aramis see?

Certainly, she saw something beautiful, something pure that deserved to be nurtured and held with high regard. Very much the opposite of what he saw. But then again, experiences were different.

He exhaled profoundly. The name came to him without much effort. _Francois_. His cheeks flushed a crimson red. The shame! He abused the name of Aramis' one true love. The name of a gentleman, of her fiancée. _Francois. _The redness descended from his face down to his neck as the name rang mercilessly between his ears. He wished he was the one who was dead right now and Francois was alive instead of him. How much happier Aramis would be! What an extraordinary man he must have been for Aramis to do what she did for him. Undoubtedly, he was nothing like him. He would have never hurt her, never have left her, never have let her down. Although Aramis never went into too much detail about her relationship with Francois, Athos was sure that the man loved her with his last breath. That he would have given up everything for her, that he would have fought for her until the end. No one else deserved her except Francois and maybe even Gerard at this point. Anyone but him, that is.

Of course, she was right to leave him. She had all the reason in the world to seek love from someone else. All he had done since he discovered her identity was humiliate her, reject her, abandon her and put her life in danger. He was nothing but a lowly bastard. And she had endured all of that while she had been in love with him; she never gave up on him she accepted him, forgave him, then continued to love him for all his ugly demons and his somber moods. She was the only woman in the world he could ever love and how lucky was he that she loved him back. But somehow, he failed hold on to it. As if he couldn't tolerate being happy. As if someone loving him made the other person seem lacking. How could anyone in their right mind love him? Worse, what if what he had with Aramis ended up like Olivier and Anne? Maybe it was better she didn't love him anymore. Her life would be better off without him.

_Athos, you fool!_ A voice in his head screamed. He desperately wanted to get up, to go to her room, to open the door and lay himself at her feet, beg for her forgiveness, for her mercy, for her love, promise to spend the rest of his life devoted to her. He will ask her to marry him and keep begging her until she does.

Perhaps it wasn't too late for Porthos either. The wedding was in a fortnight from now and if they hurried, they could make it just in time and get to the bottom of this affair. Yes! Action. A plan. That was better. That was the key.

Alas, the alcohol had penetrated his faculties and he was unable to move or articulate.

...

**Aramis**

The young musketeer sat up in her bed, fully clothed. She had developed the habit of remaining in her clothes while on short missions like this, just in case they had to flee on short notice. With the exception of her boots, she sat up with her knees pressed against her chest.

For the last few missions, her bed had been shared by Athos. She reveled in the warmth of his body, in the passion of his lovemaking, but mostly, in the knowledge that she was finally united with her soulmate, that no matter what, nothing will ever separate them

And yet, here she was. Alone again. In a cold bed no less.

Her sadness was colored by anger at Athos' last words. Yet the tears still made their way to her eyes. All the men she loved seemed to desert her: starting with Francois, then Athos, and now Porthos wasn't even speaking to her. And Gerard who chose to leave…

_Gerard_…

The recollection of her last encounter with him saved her from a slippery descent into self-pity. She sat up straight, startled. The letter! She got up and searched her bag. There was nothing in it. _No! Where could it be? _She emptied its contents. It wasn't here. Panic began to wash over her. Where was it? Did Athos take it?

And then she remembered: It was in the inner pocket of her doublet. She reached in and was relieved to feel the scratchy parchment on her fingers.

She exhaled in relief.

She examined the seal on the letter. It was the seal of the Dandurands. Then, as if unwrapping a precious gift, she broke the seal and opened it.

She flitted through the papers. There were three in total and they were all drawings.

She plopped down on the bed to examine them.

The first was a sketch of her, sitting on the boulder by the lake where he had drawn her. The memory made her heart ache. She was depicted with her head high, looking so powerful, so muscular, so proud. Underneath it, he had written, "Remember who you are." These words took her breath away and the tears in her eyes began to accumulate more incessantly.

She placed the sketch on the bed and looked at the next one. Her tears suddenly ceased. At first, she couldn't make out what it was but then it gradually dawned on her and she gasped.

This was the machine! The Iron Mask's machine they had worked together to disassemble. At the heart of the machine, he had drawn a seal. It was right in the place where the inventor's seal was to be found. The seal they had never found and thus weren't able to trace the origins to the maker. Aramis brought the paper closer to her eyes for closer examination and her eyes widened with horror: it was the Dandurand seal, undoubtedly.

Underneath the sketch, he had written, "Forgive me, I lied too."

Finally, the last sketch was something that looked vaguely familiar but she couldn't place it. It was a picture of the fleur-de-lys, flanked by a sword on the left and a quill on the right. Underneath he had written, "Lys blanc: in light and love we trust."

Her hand trembled. What was the meaning of all of this? So many thoughts were going through her head at once, she could barely breathe.

Instinctively, she folded the papers back and uttered the only word that came to her, "Athos!"

With that, she rushed downstairs to show him.


	25. Breaking Point

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 25: Breaking Point**

The dining hall was in complete chaos when Aramis reached the top of the stairs.

She paused to take in the scene: chairs were flying everywhere, women were running around screaming, swishing past her with their skirts flurrying after them and groups of men here and there were at each other's throats, with fists, daggers, pistols and swords in the air.

What in the world…?!

Aramis was used to these violent displays at taverns and auberges. Nothing phased her. But this one in particular rang an alarm in her head. Given the events of the last few days, this could only mean one thing. She sighed and shook her head.

Sure enough, there it was: in the middle of all this brouhaha, stood the giant colossus, lifting a large table with his arms and hurling it with such force in the direction of a few men to his left. She couldn't help but admire the sheer power that resided in those muscles.

As she almost reached the landing, two women came rushing past her: one was crying and hiding her face while the other comforted her. Gently, she approached the woman hiding her face and immediately recognized her as one of Porthos' escorts for the evening. _No, it can't be him_. The young woman's eye was red and her nose was crooked and bleeding.

"Who did this to you?" Aramis demanded. The young woman only cried more in response. Aramis held her more firmly. Her friend intervened and pointed to the center of the room.

"It was an accident, monsieur," she said feebly, at the point of tears herself.

_That's it._ This was too far. With her blood boiling, Aramis headed towards Porthos with ferocious determination. This monster needed to stop no matter what it cost. She made her way through the flying objects, expertly dodging swords and knives and broken bottles with feline-like agility.

Once she reached her destination, she could see Porthos walking towards another table to use it as a weapon. From the corner of her eye, she spied Athos as he was shouting at Porthos to stop while simultaneously defending himself against some miscreants who took to attack him.

Aramis drew her sword and rushed to his aid, momentarily ignoring Porthos.

"What the hell happened?" she yelled over the noise. But she already knew the answer.

"Some men tried to poach the lady he was with," Athos yelled back, his sword clashing with two daggers from the same man before he gave him a generous kick in the stomach and sent him into a wall.

"And where were _you_ in all of this?" her tone was accusatory.

"I…" he dodged a punch from the aubergiste himself. _Good God_! Were they ever going to get out alive? He suddenly realized that all the men in the room were starting to gang up on them.

He ran to where Aramis was, their backs glued and their swords slashing left and right.

"I was too late," was all he could say. She wouldn't believe him anyway. He knew she wanted to believe that he had gone up with that brunette.

They exchanged positions and she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"You mean you were too drunk?" she snapped at him before jumping away to distract a few men who were gathering on Porthos.

In his turn, Athos began backing up to where Porthos was. While Aramis distracted his enemies, Athos attempted to grab Porthos' arm and lead him out.

"We have to get out, come on!" he yelled.

"LEAVE ME ALONE, ATHOS!" the giant bellowed. His voice made the entire building quiver. The room quieted down momentarily. Seeing as how the colossus had turned to a new enemy, the men now turned on each other, motivated by the high the adrenaline produced during this violent excitement.

Completely inebriated and drunk on his rage, Porthos turned to Athos, a bottle of wine in his hand, a murderous look on his face.

Athos lowered his sword and put out his hand as a calming gesture, "Now, Porthos. Listen to me, you've had a bit much to drink and you're not yourself. Put that down and let's go for a walk, heh? A nice refreshing walk."

Athos' tone was gentle and soothing yet firm. His heart was pounding. He knew he was backing himself into a corner where he wouldn't be able to escape. This was his only chance. My God, if Porthos struck, he could kill him right then and there.

"Don't patronize me, Athos! I AM NOT A CHILD !" yelled the giant and lifted the wine bottle to strike.

"ATHOS!"

The bottle crashed into the musketeer's head with such a forceful impact, causing it to shatter into a million pieces. The room went silent. Blood spilt all over the floor. His eyes completely bewildered, his whole body shaking, Athos dropped to the floor. The horror he felt in his stomach was beyond anything he had ever felt. _No… Aramis_.

...

It all happened so fast, she had anticipated the scene and, just in time, ran towards them and jumped from a nearby table, pushing Athos out of the way with her weight, causing her to receive the full blow of Porthos' strike – a strike that was meant for someone larger and bigger than her.

She let out a cry before her body fell to the ground in a loud thump. Porthos froze.

Trembling, Athos lifted her head off the floor. Her golden mane was tainted with blood. The shards hadn't escaped her face either but the full brunt thankfully was received by her arm that she had put out to protect her head. He put his head to her chest. She was still breathing. Weakly, but breathing.

A cold and decided rage flowed through Athos' veins. He stood up and pointed his sword at the giant.

With a terrifying tone he declared, "I will kill you. If she dies…" his voice trembled and then bellowed louder than that of Porthos', "IF SHE DIES, YOU WILL ANSWER FOR IT AND BY MY HAND!"

Porthos did not move. His breathing was labored. He was petrified at his own self. Completely in shock at the sight of the beautiful musketeer lying motionless on the ground, struggling for her life. Because of him. He did that. That was her blood on his hands. Aramis' blood. His comrade-in-arms, his friend, his sister. His eyes began to fill up with tears. What has he done? What was he becoming? First, he stabbed the woman he loved and now this. He was a monster, a moronic mindless brute, no better than a common criminal.

Athos felt a tug at his sleeve.

"No, stop," it was Aramis, murmuring feebly as she struggled to steady herself up against the wall.

He turned around just in time to catch her in his arms as she fell, unconscious again. Without another look at Porthos, he lifted her up and carried her upstairs.

...

A faint smile crossed her face. She knew that hand well. It was comforting, tender and loving. It was the man she loved.

Her eyes gently fluttered open and she let out a groan. Her head throbbed and her arm felt like it was on fire.

She looked to her side at her companion. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept for days. His hair was dishevelled and his glacial blue eyes emanated the most tender concern.

"How do you feel?" came his deep intelligent voice.

She groaned and lifted herself up a bit. The room around her danced. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples for a minute before opening them again. _There, better now_.

"Like someone hit me on the head with a bottle," she replied.

He chuckled.

"Have some water." He brought a glass to her lips and watched her guzzle it down. Evidently, she was parched. He brought her another glass.

She drank and lay her head back. He stroked her forehead gently.

"How long has it been?"

"Just a bit over a day."

Now more alert she blurted out, "Porthos…where is he?"

Athos looked away. His body stiffened at the mention of Porthos.

"He returned to Paris," he said dryly.

Aramis sighed.

"The mission?" she ventured.

"It's over. We were compromised. The whole country now knows that the King's Musketeers are rampaging the roads, stirring trouble and ransacking kitchens. The Mighty Porthos is probably a household legend by now. Probably used to scare the children from doing any bad deeds."

She laughed.

He smiled at her. Good God, even in her feeble state, she always looked so tantalizing.

"Do you remember that time when we _pretended _to stir trouble and ransack farms to distract Rochefort and his guards from stopping d'Artagnan from reaching Calais?"

Athos laughed at the memory. His eyes wrinkled adorably when he laughed and for a split second, one could see a childish image of him flit through his features.

She lifted her hand to his cheek and stroked him gently. How she missed him!

"Athos…"

He couldn't resist any longer. He leaned in and embraced her. Despite their dryness, her lips were soft and delicious. He wrapped his arm around her fine waist, and pressed himself closer to her. She sighed with pure pleasure. _Ah! It's been a while_. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her, allowing his tongue to penetrate her mouth more and giving her access to his. She was parched for him, hungry for his embraces and his passion. How good it felt! How right! He moved on top of her, without separating his lips from hers. He gently grinded against her thigh. She moaned softly as she felt his erection on her. _Mmm!_ How she missed that! How she missed the way he kissed her, the way he felt inside her, the way their bodies moved together. It was as if they were made purely for each other.

His hands moved under her chemise, caressing her satiny skin and making their way to her breasts. She realized that the bandage wasn't there. He couldn't wait any longer. He was possessed by his desire for her, by his natural instinct to unite himself with this woman. _His_ woman. He disengaged from her to undress himself. All he wanted to do was feel her skin on his, her warmth, her sex around his.

She lowered herself gently onto the bed so that she was fully lying down now and she parted her legs to receive him. How she longed for him! She ran her hands on his nude chest, admiring its taughtness and its perfect muscular undulations. Her hand went lower until she found the thing she was longing for the most: his beautiful erect sex. Her eyes drank the sight of it with sheer lust as her sex throbbed with anticipation.

For a split second, she wondered what Gerard's looked it. Was it longer? Thicker? Bigger? Smaller? She shook her head. _No, why on earth was she thinking of that now_?! This was Athos! _Her_ Athos.

He had his head buried in her neck, caressing her with his tongue, so he didn't notice the passage of expressions that marked her features: from pure lust, to a burning desire, to scandalization at the thought of another man's erection and then finally a sudden realization: Gerard's sketches.

She pressed her palm to his chest, prompting him to halt, "Wait! There's something I have to show you!"

He brought his face to hers and she could see the sheer disappointment and annoyance on his face.

"What, _now_?" he groaned.

"Yes!" As if possessed by a brand-new strength, she pushed him off and jumped out of bed towards her doublet where she pulled out the parchment. Before she could say anything, the room spun in a dizzying speed and she fell unconscious once more.

...

When she woke up next, the sun was shining through the window. Evidently, it was late morning. She could hear the rustle of fabric and the clanking of weapons. She rubbed her eyes open and saw Athos getting dressed and assembling his arms about his person.

He didn't flinch when he saw her wake up. Instead, he went about the room gathering their things and throwing them in their sacks, without bothering to neatly place them in – a behaviour that was very much unlike him. Athos was always conscientious, valuing efficiency and order.

When he finished, he approached her. By that time, she was sitting up, staring at him. Her heart was racing. He seemed distant and cold. What happened? They almost made love last night. He was tender and warm. He was her Athos once more. But now, it was this Athos who made her feel small and unloved. The same Athos who rejected her when he found out her identity. The same Athos who, just a few weeks ago, insulted her in the worst manner possible – by invoking the name of her deceased fiancée.

She was on her guard again. Nothing good could come out of this. This was precisely the problem with Athos. One can never know with him. As a friend, he was undyingly loyal, unconditionally devoted, someone they can count on and who would give his lives to them. But as a lover, Athos was unpredictable, moody, guarded. He came with a traumatic past that was difficult to break through. Naïvely, she had thought that what they had found together would cure all their past hurts and bring them peace but evidently, it was going to take a great deal more than that. However, the burning question was: just how much would it take and how far was she willing to go?

She met his gaze with resolution. He unceremoniously threw Gerard's sketches to her.

"How long have you known about this?" his tone was stern.

"He gave it to me before we left but I had forgotten about it with all this excitement we've been thrown into," she retorted. "I opened it just two nights ago and was coming to see you when…," she gestured to her injuries.

"We have to get this to the Capitaine immediately before someone finds out and accuses you of consorting with the Iron Mask's accomplices."

"Consorting with the Iron Mask's accomplices?" she repeated, appalled, "Firstly, Gerard is not an accomplice. Secondly…"

"Not an accomplice?" He cut her off and resumed in a condescending tone, "Let's see, shall we? First off, we discover that he magically knows all the secret passages in and out of the Cardinal's residence to the point that he manages to find the room that the entire regiment of the Red Guard hadn't been able to locate for over a year. Then, he _somehow _convinces you to take him along as he generously offers his help in dismantling this absurd instrument, under the pretense that he is an expert in these things. Which, it turns out, he really is an expert on it. As if he had _seen_ this machine before. Then, he employs his natural charm to keep you distracted and busy while he destroys the only proof we have leading us to the maker of this machine. And then he conveniently leaves the country!"

She blushed hotly. Was he right? Was she really taken advantage of? Athos was the smartest of all of them and everything he said made perfect sense. Except, her gut feeling told her otherwise.

"Then why would he even leave me these sketches?"

"I don't know, Aramis, a crisis of conscience?" Then, pulling out a piece of parchment from his pocket, unfolding it and displaying it in her face, "Something more, maybe?" it was the drawing of her.

She looked away from him. What could she say?

"Do you love him?" he asked in a low barely audible voice.

She was stunned, "How could you even…?" she breathed out.

_No, Athos. I love you. I only ever wanted to love you and for you to love me and to put your trust me like you did when I was just your brother in arms. _

She wanted to cry it out but it was so useless. Penetrating his walls was becoming exhausting. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She hated the way he made her feel. She hated the way she loved him and the way he easily rejected her when things weren't going his way. But she regained herself quickly. "Remember who you are", the note had said. She closed her eyes shut and looked back at Athos with fierce resolution.

"Do you?" he insisted.

Did she? Confronted with this question from Athos, she honestly didn't know anymore. She liked Gerard's company, she liked how he made her feel, she felt a connection with him that she never felt with anyone: a connection to her very grief. He was an embodiment of that part of her, someone she could liberally share that with. Unlike Athos, he was someone who understood. Better yet, he was someone who wanted to understand.

"I…"

He nodded slowly. They were silent for a seemingly long time. Unable to remain in the room anymore, he tossed her bandages to her, along with her clothes.

"Get dressed, we need to get to Paris as soon as possible."

He walked out, closing the door behind him. He didn't care that she was wounded. She was tough, she could handle it. He can now treat her again as if she was any other soldier. She was the musketeer Aramis. Not his Aramis, not his lover. She was simply, the musketeer Aramis. Yet even with this cold detachment that he struggled to maintain, his heart ached profoundly and he felt a part of him has been torn away.


	26. Choices

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 26: Choices**

_The sun shone brightly on a warm summer day. The two adolescents lay side by side on the cool grass._

_"What about Mademoiselle Leblanc?" _

_"Hmm… No, I don't think so."_

_"Come on, Gerard, there must be someone you found attractive!" exasperated, Marianne propped herself on her elbows and stared at her companion._

_Gerard glanced at her and sighed. He sat up, hugging his knees to his chest._

_"I just… I don't know, Marianne," he wore a pensive and serious expression on his face, which made him look many years older than his mere fifteen years. Should he tell her? What will she think of him? She was his only friend in the world. He didn't want to lose her._

_Concerned, Marianne sat up and intertwined her fingers with his._

_"You know you can tell me anything…" he met her gaze. Her amber eyes glimmered in the sunlight._

_He exhaled and looked away._

_"I… Well, you're my only friend in the world. I don't want anything to ruin it," he said with a low voice._

_She said nothing. Maybe she already knew and was dreading this confession? She disengaged her hand from his and looked away. His heart began to race. Then, without any warning, he felt her lips pressing onto his. Reflexively, he pushed her away._

_ "What do you think you're doing?" he cried._

_"Sparing you a most embarrassing confession, obviously! You're welcome!" she retorted back, offended by his rejection._

_He groaned with exasperation. _

_"Well thank you, Marianne. Now I feel a lot more at ease to confide my deepest darkest secrets to you."_

_She turned away from him. The tension between them grew by the second. _

_With his fingers under her chin, he turned her towards him._

_"I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting it."_

_"I thought you were in love with me!"_

_His eyes widened and his cheeks turned a dark red. "In…in love...wi..with you?" he stammered._

_"You don't want to lose my friendship; you refuse to tell me you find other girls attractive; you're quite attentive and… we've known each other a long time now. What else could it be?" she argued. She softened her tone and looked more embarrassed now, "Anyway, I always thought you would be the first boy I kissed but I suppose I thought you would…like it too?"_

_He smiled tenderly at her. "I'm sorry I ruined your first kiss."_

_She shrugged._

_"Do you love _me_? As more than a friend?" he probed._

_"I… I don't know. I thought the kiss would be a telling sign," she smiled sheepishly at him._

_He chuckled. _

_"It _is _a telling sign!" he winked at her. _

_Marianne stared at him with a puzzled expression on her face._

_How should he explain this? Will she understand? Marianne was intelligent but she could be naïve and literal at times. Yet, they loved each other as brother and sister. He took a deep breath and, in a low voice, he confessed the truth to her._

_They sat in silence afterwards. His palms were sweaty. Will she strike him? Leave him? Reject and humiliate him? She seemed lost in thought, completely absorbed. He was beginning to panic. Her body then shifted and he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see her go._

_Instead, a pair of arms surrounded his thin figure. She lay her head on his shoulder. Silent tears flowed down his cheeks._

_"I hate that you were afraid to tell me," she spoke softly._

_"I didn't want you to think I was an abomination. Or worse, to leave," he whispered._

_She put her forehead to his, wiping his tears with her thumb, "I will never leave you, even if the stars were to fall from the heavens."_

It struck him like a whip on the face: What a fool he was! He was so lost in his new-found grief over his father; in the anger that had possessed him upon learning of his patron's betrayal. But Marianne! What had _she_ done?

The shame swept over him like an all-consuming wave, as the words of Aramis floated in his memory.

_"For what it's worth, Gerard, you have such a pure heart and a courageous spirit, your father would have been proud."_

What would his father think of him now?

He had been jealous of Marianne's happiness, berated her constantly on her behaviour and insulted her during their last interaction in a very hurtful manner. Above all, he broke a promise. He abandoned her. He abandoned her in her hour of need, just as she was about to be thrown into the arms of an odious man who will rip her of her innocence like a flower cruelly plucked before it even bloomed.

Dear God, what had he done?

He looked out onto the darkening sky. The ship he was on lulled gently on the surface of the water. They were to set sail from the port of Marseilles shortly.

Despite himself, images of the blonde musketeer kept intruding on his mind. Her divine golden locks and her soulful eyes of azure. For the first time in his life, he could feel his body reacting to this image. To _her_ image. He was confused, his body was confused.

_No, think of Marianne_, _not Aramis, you fool_! He slammed his fist onto the railing, attracting the attention of some crew members. They looked at him briefly before returning to their chatter.

"…and then the big one just lifted this table all by himself and threw it at 10 men! Could you believe it?"

The other man roared with laughter and commented, "The fearsome King's Musketeers indeed!"

Both men paused when they saw Gerard approach them. He knew of only one musketeer with that description. It can't be...

"What's this talk?" he asked them.

"Oh, you have not heard monsieur?" one of the men raised an eyebrow.

"These musketeers are the talk of the country! They rampage villages, scare the women, take all the food and alcohol and then they cause trouble and beat up everyone who gets in their way."

Gerard's jaw dropped. He can't be hearing correctly.

"Oh, tell him about the last one! Pierre was there, you see. He witnessed it all," he gestured to his companion.

"Oh, yes, monsieur! They turned on each other these musketeers and one of them killed one of his comrades. There in plain sight. With a wine bottle no less!" they both laughed.

"What an embarrassment!"

"You saw them?" exclaimed Gerard, with horror.

"He didn't kill him, Arnaud, but it _was_ a terrible blow, monsieur. Blood everywhere. His other comrade carried him up the stairs him like he was some kind of a dainty woman. Mind you, he's got the looks for it," they roared again.

_No, Aramis. It cannot be_!

"What did this musketeer look like? The one who die-was injured, that is?"

"Oh, definitely like an angel, with that porcelain skin and golden hair. What a shame, really! If not dead at least disfigured by now."

Gerard's face went pale and his eyes widened. He couldn't blink. How was this possible? Porthos almost killing Aramis?

The ship began to move.

He took Arnaud by the shoulders, "Where was this, tell me at once?" he cried frenetically.

Taken aback, Arnaud replied, "The… Golden Orchid, a few day's ride North of here."

"Good man!" Gerard tossed him a coin and ran towards the Captain.

"Capitaine! Stop the ship!"

And so, Gerard de Villebois rode off into the night determined to save and reunite himself with not only one, but two women.

...

"SUSPENDED!" came the raging verdict from the captain of the musketeers.

The two musketeers lowered their heads in embarrassment. For the last hour, they had solemnly stood in the same position, their backs arched and their hands behind their backs, enduring insult after insult, reproach after reproach and many more other colorful verbal assaults.

Capitaine de Treville had been pacing up and down the room until he finally stopped in front of the dark tall musketeer. He stood so close to him their noses were touching.

"As for you, _monsieur_ Athos," Treville only ever used titles with his musketeers when he was about to humiliate them beyond measure, "I can assure you nothing would have brought me more pleasure on this horrific day than to suspend you. Fortunately for you, d'Artagnan is still on a secret mission for the Queen and has not yet returned. But rest assured that the moment he sets foot in this establishment, I will send you out this door with no hesitation until further notice." he deliberately emphasized his "s"s and "f"s as he spoke, showering Athos with his spittle. The latter endured it in a revered silence.

Aramis looked up at their captain. So, Athos was the one being retained for duty.

As if reading her thoughts, he moved over to her in the same manner.

"Something to say, musketeer?" he challenged her. She looked him proudly in the eye. He can humiliate her all he wants. She won't give him the satisfaction of responding.

"Don't think for one second that I can risk an injured musketeer for this special task. Besides, haven't you done quite ENOUGH with this Iron Mask business and the machine at the Cardinal's residence?"

He moved away from her and turned his back to them. He placed his fists on his desk. His shoulders dropped and his heart ached. What a week it had been!

First and foremost, had been the horrific discovery of the return of the Iron Mask, which sent a shockwave through the court and caused a panic for the King and the Prince, naturally. Thankfully, the news hadn't yet reached the people but it was only a matter of time. But security had to be tightened and someone needed to be blamed for not having ensured his absolute death at Belle-Isle. Could it even be the same Iron Mask? Or was this someone else? They knew nothing and there were no other incidents since that night at Richelieu's residence.

Then, there was the mysterious kidnapping of the inventor and the disappearance of his niece. What was their connection to the Iron Mask and why should he make an appearance specifically to kidnap them? He had pledged one of his best musketeers to discretely investigate but he was regretting it now.

Earlier this week, the Captain of the musketeers received a humiliating blow when he had to learn about his musketeers' escapades throughout the country from none other than the King himself. Courtesy of his spies, Richelieu had gladly informed His Majesty before consulting Treville.

Then earlier today, Porthos unexpectedly presents himself in Paris days before he was expecting their return. And he arrived alone. Without his comrades. After questioning him, it turned out that the situation was worse than he could possibly have imagined. At least Porthos had had the decency to confess everything to the last detail.

And now, the other two arrived, neither one speaking to the other, the tension between them as thick as an elephant's skin. One of them was injured in the head with cuts all over her face. When he heard Porthos' confession, all he could think of was the young woman behind the musketeer. He felt his heart stop for an entire five seconds as Porthos described the incident. Of all his musketeers, he couldn't help but worry about Aramis whenever they went on a mission or encountered some danger here and there. But never in his life did he think he would have to worry for her from Porthos or Athos. But now…

And then, these two presented him with these sketches that Aramis had received from the inventor's assistant and hadn't thought to investigate earlier, placing her in a delicate position that could easily be mistaken for consorting with him in a plot. Dear God…

What was happening to the world? This was bad. Bad for him, for the musketeers and most importantly, for the King. He needed to find a way to fix this, to fix his musketeers.

His heart resisted the next thing that was to come out of his mouth. But it had to be done. Given the choice between these two, he wasn't going to let an injured musketeer conduct this investigation. Besides, she was compromised it seems. Whatever her involvement was with that inventor's assistant, she had compromised herself - as Athos had so indiscreetly pointed out to him.

He exhaled and quietly but sternly declared, "House arrest until further notice."

"_A vos orders, capitaine_," she replied proudly. He watched her leave from the corner of his eye. He then turned around to his other musketeer. The thorn in his side.

...

"Sit," he barked at the musketeer.

Athos obeyed. He lowered himself cautiously onto the chair opposite the Captain's desk, where the Captain now sat, his hands clasped together on the bureau.

"You will tell me everything I want to know and that is an order."

"But we've already…"

The Captain put his hand up to silence him.

He drummed his index finger on the table.

"I want to know _everything_ since your last mission. Everything between you and Aramis, specifically. Leave no detail out."

Capitaine de Treville knew his musketeers like the back of his hand. Ever since their return from their last mission abroad, something was different. Something was off and he began to suspect. But now, he was almost sure.

And there it was. The conversation Athos had dreaded for the past year. The Captain had caught on on his relationship with Aramis, it seems. He had to admit, things _had_ spiralled out of control lately, it was hard not to suspect. There was no point in resisting anymore.

He took a deep breath and began.

...

Three hours, several insults, outraged cries of "YOU DID WHAT!", "YOU SAID WHAT!" and "YOU AND PORTHOS DID WHAT?!", a few fists to the table later, musketeer and Captain sat in silence, each of them unable to face the other.

He told him everything. How they found out, the treatment they had subjected her to, the events that led to rescuing her, the sordid aftermath, and finally, the blossoming of their passionate affair. He left the graphic details out. He then went on with the changes that happened when they came back from Paris. He even relayed the recent history between Porthos and his involvement with the Comtesse de Dandurand. About Gerard. About Gerard kissing Aramis. He left nothing out.

When he finished, all the Captain could utter was, "Good God" and he did have a sudden inkling to rush into a nearby church, kneel in front of the statue of Christ and pray until the Lord appeased his turbulent spirit. Alas, Treville was never a man of God.

"What happened to Porthos?" Athos broke the silence.

The Captain glared at him, "_That_, is none of your concern."

Silence pervaded the room once again.

"Do you love her?"

Their eyes locked intently.

"Yes."

"Do you intend to marry her?"

"I…" he didn't know what to say except, "it's complicated."

"Even in her death, your wife still haunts you," the Captain's eyes betrayed a hint of tenderness.

Athos looked away.

"I don't know if she loves _me_ anymore," he confessed.

The Captain repressed a laugh. How juvenile this statement sounded and how ironic this situation was! Jean-Armand de Treville, was a trained soldier. He had spent all his years by the King's side, as protector and guardian. Like a man of God, he had forsaken marriage and having a family to put his duty above all else. More importantly, he carefully avoided delving deep into the social affairs in court so as to avoid any and all drama that seemed to always naturally come about whenever those of the fair sex were involved. And yet, here he was. In his bureau as Captain of the musketeers, France's most elite squadron, discussing matters of the heart with his best musketeer as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Whether she loves you or not is irrelevant," he finally uttered.

Athos was puzzled. The Captain rose from his seat and stood facing the window.

"Listen, Athos. I personally have avoided these situations so I may not be the best judge on the matter. But I do know that when we truly love, we love unconditionally, we love wholeheartedly and we expect nothing in return from those we love. We are simply content with loving them. In your case, you should be more than content. After all the _wonderful_ tales you have just told me, it is honestly a miracle that there is someone out there who was at least willing to love you. Especially after everything you had said and done to her and _keep_ saying and doing."

He paused, looking out the window, reminiscing of a different time when things were simpler. He chuckled to himself. When was anything concerning Aramis simple, really? But compared to this, her disguise paled in comparison.

"Frankly, when she first came to me to join the musketeers, I thought she was the most senseless person I have ever met. But I was wrong. It is _now_ that I think her to be most senseless for having endured your rebukes time and time again. For shame, Athos. Is this how a real man behaves? A musketeer no less!"

He turned to him. His tone was not at all severe but his words, that delivered the truth so loud and clear, cut through the train of heavy thoughts that had been clouding Athos' mind for a long time. They pierced him like a thousand arrows. His neck glowed red with shame and his lips quivered.

He was right. Everything the Captain said was right.

The Captain took a few steps towards him.

"I had always hoped that one day, when I am gone, you will succeed me as Captain of the musketeers," Athos looked up to his Captain with tenderness, "I have taught you and have also learned from you all these years and you are my best musketeer but you have one failing that should you choose to ignore, could bring upon your demise. So, if there is one last thing for me to teach you it would be generosity of spirit, openness and forgiveness. When you become Captain, you will see that everyone of your underlings comes with their own baggage, with their own unique and special story. We can only see them as they are now, not as what they were or where their failings will lead them. We cannot cloud our judgement by our past or by our faulty perceptions. We must learn to temper ourselves in that regard. A great leader is one who allows those around him the space to flourish, who grants them faith and encourages them to become the best version of themselves _despite_ their shortcomings.

"As of today, there are two possible outcomes for you: either you learn to forgive, open up your spirit and your heart and move away from the past, which will give you a much happier and lighter life albeit maybe more exposed to hurt and rejection. Or, you remain who you are and you continue with your ruminations and your haunted past until your bitter end, which will most likely occur in a nameless tavern somewhere. It is entirely your choice."


	27. Reunions I

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 27: Reunions I**

The sky clouded heavily to welcome the first autumn rain, making her demure darker than usual.

She let out a heavy sigh as she closed the door behind her. She couldn't tell whether it was relief from the odious company of her comrades-in-arms, or relief from having to contain the turbulence raging in her soul for a prolonged period of time.

She dropped her sack unceremoniously by the door and lazily headed towards the kitchen to fill a small basin of water and carry it to her bedroom.

She stood in front of the looking glass. The darkness cast long shadows under her eyes. Her gaze flit from one gash to another on her face. They were superficial. Thankfully, she had the sense and the agility to move fast and to protect her face, otherwise… Death or complete disfiguration. She wasn't sure which was worse. To think it was all because of Porthos. That friendly giant who always sought to be her protector. He was hurting, yes, she knew. He was drunk, yes, she knew. But he hurt her.

Her eyes filled with their salty liquid and began to gush out unstoppably, making its way down the curves of her face, through the crevices of her wounds until finally pooling on her little dresser, where she knelt over, trying to stabilize herself from sinking further into this darkness. In the past, when things were strained between her and her comrades, there was always her duty to rely on. But now, even that was compromised.

Her sobs went from silent to gradually loud and laborious.

_No, no Aramis_, _pull yourself together_!

The parting words of Gerard suddenly came to her like a divine message. She put her hand to her chest as if to calm herself. She whispered them to herself.

_You are a warrior, a goddess, a lioness and above all, do you know what you are? You are a musketeer of the King and not just any musketeer. You are the fiercest soldier in all the land and no one, I mean no one, not even Athos, can take that away from you. Remember who you are._

She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand and proceeded to light a candle. Strange, how these words brought so much strength to her. Strange, how this man, this glorious beautiful soul, had crossed her path and made such a dent in her spirit and in such a short time too. As if their spirits were fashioned from the same ethereal material up in the Heavens. Stranger still, how usually it was Francois' spirit who had occupied this place – who had the sole ability to reach out to her from beyond and pull her back up when she was in the dark.

Yet, Gerard's presence felt real. She could even smell his scent. That scent of fresh clean linen …mixed with… salty air? She sniffled. Her nose must be lying to her. That memory was off.

She looked at herself again in the looking glass. She could almost see him there too. Or an apparition of him. As if his eyes stared at her from a different realm, filled with so much tenderness, so much concern. His hand gently reached out and touched her shoulder, ever so daintily, ever so carefully and lightly, as if, were he to fully press his hand onto her, it would simple go through her. Apparitions couldn't touch.

"Aramis…" his melodious voice filled the room. How real it sounded. Her entire body reverberated. She had heard apparitions before. How many times had she conversed with the apparition of Francois? But not once did his voice cause such a physical reaction in her body.

Slowly, the truth dawned on her.

Her eyes shot wide-open and she jumped like a frightened feline, reflexively drawing her sword, turning around with the speed of lightning and slashing at the space behind her that was occupied by the apparition.

Having anticipated her move, he had jumped a few steps back. A small lock of his hair fell to the ground as her blade narrowly missed his face.

"You're… You're not a ghost," she stammered, as she saw the strand of hair at his feet. Dear God, she almost killed him. She was in too much of a shock to lower her sword. Her chest moved up and down with her accelerated breath.

He put his hands up and away from his weapons, in a peaceful gesture.

"I can assure you, I am as real as you are," his voice slightly trembled.

"What're you…What are you doing here?"

"I didn't know where else to go. Please, put the sword down. There's a lot I have to tell you," he spoke tenderly, as one would speak to a child.

She lowered her sword and he breathed a sigh of relief. A sigh that did not attain its conclusion for before he could retrieve his breath, the edge of her sword was back at his neck.

"You mean about your relationship with the Iron Mask?" her voice found its authority once more.

Despite the danger of the situation, he couldn't help but remark just how dashing she looked. Her form was tall, her stance was perfection. He couldn't tell where the sword ended and her arm began. They were one, forged from the same metal. And her eyes! Oh, her eyes! They were on fire. If the candle had gone out in the room, the fire from her eyes would be enough to sustain them. Blasted that it was directed at him. And yet, something in him was aroused. _Not again_, he groaned internally.

"Is that what you think, too?" he replied in the same tone. He wasn't going to let her destabilize him, or to let her see what she was doing to him. "I am not an accomplice. Please lower your weapon and I will explain everything," he continued.

With her sword, she gestured to his belt, where he kept his own sword, a pistol and a dagger. He understood. He obeyed. Keeping his eyes on hers, he proceeded to undo his belt and disarm himself. He even pulled his right leg up and took out a hidden dagger.

With a loud clank, everything fell on the floor. He kicked them over to her side and lowered his arms, a look of defiance in his eyes.

In her turn, she kicked all his weapons under the dressing table and then, after making sure to stand between him and the table, she returned her blade back to its home and proceeded to disarm herself. Let it be even now.

He watched her with fascination. Even now, there were times when her androgynous features would showcase one gender over another, further muddling his already-confused perceptions of this musketeer and of himself.

They stood in silence, each devouring the other with their peripheral senses and then filling in the blanks with their respective fantasies.

He wanted to press his lips to hers. To see what it felt like again. His curiosity and his desire burned within him. He wanted to encircle her waist with his arms. To turn her around, remove her bottoms and…oh _dear God, no. No, focus, you fool! You didn't come back all this way for this. Marianne could be in danger and all you could think about is this musketeer._

He exhaled deeply and in a voice that was lower than usual he spoke:

"I was about to set sail from Marseilles, but I simply couldn't leave. I rode with barely any rest until I made it to Paris not too long ago. I went first to the Cardinal's residence to see Marianne. Before I even stepped foot into it, a few Red Guards had lunged on me. I fought them off and ran. One of them caught up to me. We fought and I managed to pin him down. He told me everything."

The memory was still fresh. The feelings of dread and horror he felt when he discovered what had happened to the Dandurands flooded him once more. Overcome, he sat on the edge of the bed in the room, with his head in between his hands.

"The Comte de Rochefort thinks I had something to do with it. So now I'm a wanted suspect. A criminal."

The Captain hadn't mentioned this part. At least not to her.

Then, casting a glance at her, he ventured, "I suppose you now think me a criminal, too."

She looked away from him and leaned on the dresser, her arms crossed against her chest.

"Let's just say you left me with some unanswered questions."

"Ask me anything, then."

...

During the next hour, the sky had transitioned from threatening black clouds, to a slow gradual drizzle and finally to a long-awaited downpour.

Aramis sat on the chair of the dresser, her legs on either of it, her chest facing the back of the chair while her head hung down on her arms along the rail. She watched him in silence. He wasn't moving, just laying down on the bed, with his feet on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Not the first attractive man with golden-brown hair who has been in that bed. She smiled to herself thinking of the Duke of Buckingham. She dreamily gazed at her current guest; his broad and lean chest looked so appetizing. _Focus, you imbecile!_ She reproached herself.

"So, your father?" she interrupted the silence.

"Not an accident."

"And the Comte had known he was building the room exchange machine for the Iron Mask?"

He nodded.

"Then Manson's sword and Milady's glider…" she remembered these inventions from the exhibition.

He nodded again.

"I don't understand. He's the Cardinal's friend, wouldn't the Cardinal have known or suspected? There really isn't much that escapes that old wretch."

"If the Comte de Dandurand really is part of this Iron Mask's organization, then he must be gifted in lying and pretending. Extraordinarily so."

She could sense Gerard's bitterness towards his patron.

She couldn't make sense of any of this. How could the Cardinal not know? Perhaps he knew something else that they didn't know? What weapon was he building for them and to what end? What does Rameau have to do with all of this? Was it a personal vendetta? Can they prove his association with the Iron Mask finally? Who _was_ the Iron Mask?! Why would they attack the Cardinal's residence _again? _Her head ached. Too many questions, too many threads to follow.

"We have to tell Ath-I mean the Captain. He would know what to do."

Gerard's body tensed at the close mention of Athos. Have they reconciled on the mission? Was she still in love with him?

Suddenly, a thought came to her.

"What about Marianne's parents?"

"What about them?" he replied, absent-mindedly, still thinking of the figure of the tall dark musketeer who went by the name of Athos.

"If your father's death was not accidental and they were all killed in the same accident…"

His body shot up as if he was bitten by a serpent. He was dumbfounded. He struck his own forehead with his palm. Just how much of an idiot could he possibly have been? He stared blankly at Aramis. How could he not have thought of that before? Marianne's parents…

"Rameau killed them," he whispered. The words hung in the air like a heavy blade, "That was his revenge. That was his revenge against this so-called Ordre de Lys-Blanc, whatever that is. Against what had happened to his sister. One for one." _Like in chess_, he thought.

He stood up and began frantically pacing up and down the room, his hand furiously tracing a line from his hairline to his back.

"Rameau's sister, this Rosalie, she was with child. And I think the Comte had loved her. So now Rameau wants to avenge that child by way of Marianne."

His blood ran cold. How could he not have seen all of this?

"That's why the Comte was in such a hurry to marry her off to Rochefort!" Aramis put in. A ray of hope lit in her spirit. She was right all along! Marianne's uncle must have told her something. He must have used Porthos against her to convince her to marry Rochefort. Marianne must have known her life was in danger. She had chosen to spare the man she loved any grief that could come from associating with her. She loved him, she loved Porthos.

"Marianne… Marianne… I just left her. I just up and left her," he kept repeating like a madman. The guilt was starting to weigh down on him.

"Thankfully, Monsieur Lemay was saved just in time so at least we know she had escaped with his help," she tried to comfort him with the knowledge her and Athos had received from their Captain about the details of the incident.

"I have to leave. I have to leave now. I have to find her. She could be in danger. She could be lost. Or worse! Oh God, it's all my fault. If anything happens to her…" The panic took hold of his mind and body. He trembled and his breathing was short and shallow. He could only see images of Marianne dying slowly in a ditch somewhere, or being accosted by men, or sold into prostitution or…

Aramis took him by the shoulders and turned him towards her. She searched his eyes to find the rational person behind this pool of nerves. She smiled tenderly at him. How vulnerable and fragile he seemed. In a faint way, he reminded her of D'Artagnan. She wanted to pull him towards her, to keep him safe in her arms, to comfort him, to revel in the warmth of his body and share the warmth of her body with him.

"None of this is your fault, Gerard," she began, "Marianne is a strong-willed and courageous woman. We need to get this information to the Captain as soon as possible. Then we can go looking for her."

"Girl," he corrected her, "She's just a girl. She's helpless, she's unarmed, she's naïve and she is most _certainly not_ acquainted with the ways of the world."

He was startled when Aramis simply threw her head back and roared with laughter.

"What the…?" his panic had now completely vanished and was replaced by severe perplexion.

She dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Heavens, she hadn't felt this light-hearted for a long time. Not since the last time Porthos had said something funny. How she missed him.

She cleared her throat and threw Gerard a mocking glance.

"We're talking about the same young woman who had slapped the Comte de Rochefort in the middle of the King's ball, ran away and then convinced that colossus of a musketeer to teach her how to throw some punches? The one who had been living a duplicitous life, ardently pursuing a passion that is prohibited to those of her sex, at the pain of death should she be discovered? Or the one who had accompanied a musketeer and the Prince to a tavern where she was caught in a scrimmage and had heroically placed herself in front of the Prince to protect him? Or the one who somehow managed to convince that fool of a Porthos to pose a theoretical question at a geometry lecture?" here, she stopped and lost herself to another bout of roaring laughter at the sheer memory.

Gerard, on the other hand, felt like he was losing ground. As though his perception and everything he had known about himself, his life, his past was standing on shifting sands.

"Or, maybe the young woman who had nonchalantly taken off her clothes to go for a dive - with a _musketeer_ no less - _while_ in the company of 2 other men? Or the one who took the brave decision to spare the man she loved from a tragic situation that would break their hearts forever or kill one of them or both, at the expense of herself, her soul and her body, by agreeing to pledge herself to someone like Rochefort? And finally, are we still talking about the same woman who had escaped the clutches of the Iron Mask himself when he had specifically brought himself and his blasted gang to come and kidnap her and force her into service for them or use her as bait for her uncle?"

He plopped down once more on the bed. It seems his idiocy kept reaching new levels with each passing minute. By the end of the day, he was sure the donkey in the stables he had passed down the street would possess a lot more sense and wisdom than him.

"I'm not sure I would use the words "helpless" or "naïve" to describe this Marianne. Your devotion, although well-intended, seems misplaced and I wonder whether it is you who needs her more than she needs you."

_[A bonus chapter entitled "An Experiment" follows the events of this chapter]_


	28. Homecoming

_The lovely image of Porthos in the cover image of the story inspired to me write the nieces and nephews of dear Porthos for this chapter._

_Many thanks to the very talented artist, __夏虫 aka "SummerBug", who was very kind to give me permission to use her beautiful art as the cover of the story. I invite you to check out her work on /en/users/34528959_

**L'amante de Porthos:**

**Chapter 28: Homecoming**

Cecile Bouchette stood at the gate of her farm, looking expectantly at the horizon, where a rider appeared as a small point in space that was gradually getting bigger as it approached. She was beginning to worry. She hadn't been expecting him for days still but her daughter had run into the kitchen and announced that there was a rider who was fast approaching the farm and they could see him from atop the tree they had been climbing. It could be no one else but him, Cecile knew. Soon enough, the forest green of his doublet and his large form on top of the sturdy horse, Thunder, came into focus.

The message had come just a few days ago. It was sent to her specifically and not to her husband, as was usually the case when the Captain of the Musketeers of the King had to make a special order for a horse or a mare. But this wasn't an order. She was to expect the musketeer, Porthos du Vallon in a weeks' time for an extended stay for "training" purposes immediately following his mission. He generously sent a few coins to cover the musketeer's lodgings and any other expenses.

"But for how long?" she queried the messenger.

"He did not say, Madame. But from the way he spoke, it can't have been less than a month."

A month! What kind of training would Porthos du Vallon possibly be getting by staying here for a month?! How absurd! He was a natural rider, a skilled swordsman and possessed uncommon strength that most men envied. What could he possibly need here? Unless… _Oh no_, the worst dawned on Cecile. Unless he was injured terribly to render him out of service and in need of a prolonged repose… _Good God!_ Her heart had leapt.

But her worries were soon appeased when she saw him riding in full form and strength as he approached the farm. She waved to him and upon seeing her, he slowed down and trotted to a halt by the gate.

He dismounted his horse and landed on his feet with a thump. She breathed a sigh of relief. All his limbs were intact. He didn't seem to have any bandages. He looked perfectly well aside from a general air of fatigue and the stress of a long journey, no doubt from his last mission.

He arched his back to stretch and barely approached the woman by the gate before three rambunctious children came running from behind her and jumped on him all three at once.

"Uncle Porthos!" they cried.

"Good grief! How heavy you have grown!" he grunted as he lifted up all three of them.

"Me or them?" she called out to him.

He looked over the head of one of the children to see the enormous protruding belly of his hostess.

"Cecile! I had no idea!"

He put the children down carefully, to their dismay, but they clung to his thick legs and arms as he dragged them and walked over to her. He took her in his arms.

"Careful now, brother!" she cautioned.

She held him at arm's length and kissed his cheeks.

"You look beautiful as always," he said, planting a tender kiss on the top of her head.

"And you look positively worn out," she replied. She examined him thoroughly and was alarmed to see that her brother looked thinner than usual.

"Come inside, I've made a table."

...

He plopped down on the chair, examining the food on the table before him. There were all kinds of fresh fruit, cheeses, spreads and bread. He hadn't eaten since supper the night before but he found he had no appetite. She poured him some wine which he ended up pushing aside without as much as a glance.

They made some conversation. He asked about the farm, about the horses, about her husband. She asked after his Captain, his regiment and his friends. Meanwhile, he was absent-mindedly nibbling on some bread and cheese. _Nibbling_. Porthos was nibbling. Like a mouse nibbles on cheese in the middle of the night while everyone was asleep. _What in God's name had happened?_ She thought to herself.

As if reading her thoughts, he ventured, "I'm just tired Cecile. It's been a long journey. Would you excuse me as I take my leave of you and take a nap upstairs?"

"By all means," she replied, still surprised, "The bed has been made and you can make yourself a bath afterwards. I shan't have dirty smelly soldiers in my house."

He rolled his eyes and climbed the stairs.

...

The bed creaked under his weight as he plopped down on it, his arms behind his neck. It was so good to be home. So far away from everything that had happened. The feelings of guilt and shame over what he had done to Aramis and Marianne hadn't left him once throughout his solo journey back to Paris. They were further intensified when he had to relay these unfortunate events to his Captain and then the feelings continued to accompany him again on his journey from Paris to here.

The Captain had been kind. He had ruined the mission, compromised himself and his comrades, almost _killed_ one of his comrades and completely soiled the reputation of the musketeers. He couldn't believe the Captain hadn't discharged him on the spot. For now, he was suspended until the Captain sent for him to decide what to do with him.

How did it all get out of control like this?

He could see her face floating in his mind. Her smile, her beautiful eyes, her lovely auburn hair. The way her eyes wrinkled when she giggled and the way she playfully shoved him when he teased her. The way she became all riled up when he went too far and then the ease with which he could appease her and win her back, like a fun game between two lovers. He took a deep breath. _Good heavens_, he could even smell her scent! That aphrodisiac mix of rose and geranium that ignited his senses every time he was near her. He could feel his body reacting to it even now. He never knew memory could be so powerful!

Oh, but the curves of her body! Her robust figure and her full round breasts. How delectable would they have been, he was sure. He had it all planned out. He would have asked her to marry him at sun down on top of a hill overlooking Paris. Then they would ride out into the night until they reached the Silent Night auberge and he would take a room for them. And there, if she wanted him as well, he had planned to spend the entire night exploring every inch of her, worshipping every morsel of her and giving way to all the passion and love he held for her.

Alas! The image of her in Rochefort's arms, his lips on hers stuck in his mind like an intolerant leech. She had betrayed him. Just like Athos had predicted.

Then why did he feel guilty? The dagger incident _was_ an accident. But no, it wasn't just that. There was something different about her that evening. Something somber, something like a lingering shadow. She looked worn out and fatigued and she was flustered, very much unlike her usual composed reserve. Worse, she had tried to tell him something, to explain something. But he had been too angry and too bitter. All he had wanted was to be left alone. And yet, she persisted and then he said some things and she said some things back and he lost control. The way she shrieked, the way she looked at him at the end made him cringe. Like he was a monster.

Wasn't he, though? He couldn't get the image of Aramis out of his mind: the way her body limply fell to the floor, amidst shattered glass that cut through her skin. Worse still, the way Athos had looked at him. With sheer hatred, with contempt. He would have pierced his sword through him had Aramis not stopped him.

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow in an attempt to put a stop to these thoughts. But he couldn't shake off the scent of Marianne as much as he tried. It was there, as if infused in his very senses. Strangely, he took comfort in it. He hugged the pillow to his chest and for a moment pretended it was her, having fallen asleep in his arms after their first night of passion. He would kiss the top of her head and fall asleep in the comfort of their shared affection, in the knowledge that he had someone to protect and look after.

...

"Mmm," he moaned.

"Wake up, Porthos!" a firm hand shook him.

"Leave me be," he groaned in a thick voice.

"God does not look kindly upon laziness. You have been asleep for a while now and sloth is one of the Seven Deadly Sins that the Devil tries to lure us into."

Porthos gritted his teeth and turned his back to his visitor. Of all the people in the world, this was the last person he had wished to see.

"Leave me be, Armand."

"It's _Father_ Armand, now, actually," replied the intruder proudly.

"Well, congratulations," came the dry reply of Porthos.

Father Armand was exasperated.

"Would you just look at me, for God's sake? I haven't seen you in ages."

Porthos relented and sat up, finally facing his visitor.

"It's not ages. I saw you last Christmas."

"You escaped the Church right after the sermon! You didn't even come to greet me."

"Well, you seemed busy with your parishioners, who am I to interrupt?"

"I would always make time for my brother, even if I am with parishioners but you seem to take no interest whatsoever in God and religion."

"What are you doing here, Armand?" Porthos snapped. He had no patience for his brother's sermons whatsoever. Even while they were growing up, Porthos could not stand the company of his younger brother. He always thought he must have been adopted. He looked like them sure enough, but he was always serious and anxious, always self-righteous and consorting with the adults against the children. If the baker had learned it was one of them who has stolen a tart, it was surely Armand who had told. Or if their mother had learned who had broken the expensive vase, it was surely Armand who had told.

"_Father_ Armand," he corrected him, his temper was rising, "Honestly, Porthos!"

"Ouf, do take care, brother, I hear God does not look kindly on generous displays of anger. Wrath is after all, a Seven Deadly Sin, is it not?" he looked up at the ceiling, feigning ignorance.

Against his better judgement, Father Armand couldn't help but let out a growl. His brother was beyond infuriating. He stood up.

"Honestly, I have no idea why Cecile sent for me. You seem just fine to me."

"Who said I wasn't?"

"Well, word on the street is, you haven't touched your food, or your wine and that you lost some weight. Cecile was concerned so she sent for me."

Porthos put his legs down by the side of the bed.

"Well, I don't know why she would send for _you_. Perhaps she thought I was dying and needed to give my last confession? Which reminds me, I do have a lot of those. Just this past week I took five whores to bed at the same time."

"YOU ARE TRULY INSUFFERABLE!" cried out the priest and left the room, leaving a very amused Porthos that fell back on his bed with laughter.

Cecile poked her head in, "I knew that would do it!" and she joined in his glee.


	29. Family Time

_The lovely image of Porthos in the cover image of the story inspired to me write the nieces and nephews of dear Porthos for this chapter._

_Many thanks to the very talented artist, __夏虫 aka "SummerBug", who was very kind to give me permission to use her beautiful art as the cover of the story. I invite you to check out her work on /en/users/34528959_

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 29: Family Time**

The rain from the night before gave way to a splendid and warm autumn sun. Cecile stared out the window of her kitchen. Armand's presence had definitely aroused something in their brother. Yes, he still wasn't eating well but at least he had gone outside today, even though he didn't really have much of a choice.

Earlier in the morning, the children had barged into his room, poking and prodding the sleeping giant until finally succeeding in waking him up when two of them decided it would be fun to bounce on his belly. He expelled a loud and angry groan and shooed them out the room. Cursing under his breath, he then buried himself under the sheets again, revelling in his newly found illusion of Marianne's scent. He could almost feel her there and that comforted him. He just wanted to remain there, to close his eyes and pretend she was there with him. He was afraid to wake up from this perfect dream.

But wake up he did, for the children were anything but discouraged.

They kept coming in and out the room, tugging at his arm and jumping on his bed until he finally rose like a sleeping bear and, in his rage, chased them all the way down the stairs and outside into the fields as they screamed half with fear and half with sheer and utter excitement at the thought of being pursued by this giant friendly ogre.

…..

Hours later, they were still playing in the fields, alternating between hide-and-seek, tag games or playful sword fighting with sticks.

Porthos was such a joy with children, Cecile thought. In many ways, he was still a child himself. He had managed to keep that childish innocence in his spirit. He had never given up his sense of adventure; on the contrary, he had nurtured it to the point of recklessness. And like a reckless child, he knew no fear. He was perpetually cheerful, unconditionally generous and he wore his heart on his sleeve with no care in the world. Of course, it helped a great deal that he possessed a formidable appearance and a large presence, so people thought twice before taking advantage of his agreeable nature. His enemies certainly thought a great deal before taking him on as an adversary. In this way, Porthos was a walking paradox: he was strong, powerful and brave, with a violent temper that could crush anything in his way, much like the God of Thunder in Norse mythology. But he was also kind, soft-hearted, affectionate and simply adorable.

…And yet he had to go and become a soldier. Cecile shook her head and sighed. He could have been a farmer and a good one too with that strength of his. He would be married by now with many children of his own. She would never have to worry about him, never have to feel that dread where her heart stops for a second every time she sees a messenger from Capitaine de Treville. At least he wasn't a mindless soldier. He was a musketeer and one of the best in the country. He had made something of himself and risen up in the world. Their mother would have been proud.

Her reflections where interrupted when he barged through the kitchen door, breathless and demanding some water.

"Take off your boots and come get it yourself," Cecile snapped over her shoulder. She was busy cleaning the carcass of a duck and she looked mighty dangerous with her bloody apron and the giant knife in her hand.

He grunted and obeyed her.

He poured himself a glass and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, catching his breath.

"So much for the mighty musketeer you are! Three children and you're spent. Meanwhile they're all still running around with all the energy in the world."

He chuckled and resumed his rest pose silently. Usually, he made a comment or two about how these children were the very incarnation of the devil. All in good humor, of course.

This time Cecile _had_ to say something. She turned around with a serious concerned expression on her face.

"What's going on, brother?" she spoke softly.

He didn't look at her. "I suppose I'm getting older. Not much energy for three children at once," he smiled at her.

"That's not what I meant."

He gave her a questioning look.

"Come on, Porthos! What are you even doing here?"

He averted his eyes. She knew that expression, she had hurt his feelings.

"Are you not happy to see me?" he said, quietly.

"You know I am always happy to see you but let's face it, it's the middle of September. Your Capitain sends me a message to expect you completely out of the blue. And I thought the worst had happened. That you had lost a limb or worse, were being brought in as a dying corpse!"

He let out a deep sigh and for a second, Cecile could see the eight-year old boy instead of this colossus of a young man.

"I…" he ventured. But where should he begin? Should he even begin at all? Why not just bury everything under the sand? Oh, but he felt lonely and sad carrying this burden and Porthos was not used to either of these.

"Our last mission was a failure. Mainly because of me," he confessed.

Cecile nodded and with a grin, "So, the rumors of the Mighty Musketeer Porthos, who raids villages of their food and women like a hungry wolf, are true?"

His cheeks reddened and he groaned in shame, "Argh, so you have heard?"

"Quite the legends, brother! I tell you, I was worried for my children," she teased him.

"Come on, Cecile, you know it's not true. You know I'm not like that!" he pleaded.

"Relax, I'm only teasing you." She was taken aback by his lack of humour.

He looked down at his fingers and she thought he was on the verge of tears. She rubbed her hands on her apron and wrapped her arms around him as much as she could, given her current size and his.

"Oh, Porthos," she comforted him, kissing the top of his head and massaging his neck. He began to relax under her motherly touch.

Then teasingly, she ventured, "So, did you actually do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know, kill Athos and Aramis?"

He turned around, indignant, "What the bloody hell are you talking about!"

"They say you killed them."

"Of course I did _not_ kill them! My God!"

She roared with laughter.

"Quit teasing me about it," he grunted. Yes, the eight-year old boy was well and alive.

After a few moments when Cecile stopped laughing and went back to her task, he surprised her with:

"Well, it's not entirely…untrue…"

Her knife rested in midair and she turned around, questioningly. He had a sheepish look on his face and she had the same scowl their mother used to have when they had done something wrong.

"What do you _mean_ not entirely untrue?" she enunciated slowly.

…..

Her eyes widened with horror as he relayed the events of that night to her. He suddenly regretted having said anything at all but it felt good to let it out and he always knew he could count on Cecile's understanding.

Understanding he did not get.

"Cecile?" he probed her, seeing as she hadn't moved for a while.

And in a high-pitched voice she said, "What could _possibly_ have possessed you to _do_ such a thing!"

"I told you, I had too much to drink and…" he was on the defensive.

"Since when do _you_ have so much to drink to the point of becoming a violent brute? And to your _friends_, no less!" she cried, unable to contain her displeasure any longer.

"I always have a lot to drink, it's the way of men. Not that _you_ know anything about it," he snapped at her, gesturing to her pregnant belly.

She took a few steps closer to him, the knife still in her hand.

"The way of _men_ or of _soldiers_? Because I know many men who are gentlemen and who do not feel the need to take to the taverns and make idiot drunkards of themselves."

_"_No doubt Armand is one of those men," he retaliated, his temper rising, "Whereas I am always the delinquent, the troublemaker, the brute. And Armand ever the pious. The golden child!"

"Oh, hush with this nonsense! You know very well you were Mama's favorite," she rolled her eyes. "This has nothing to do with Armand. This has every bit to do with this… this… disgusting soldier life you took to."

"Argh, not this again," he whined, "I thought you were _happy_ I became a musketeer."

"I am, I _was_, but now this!" she cried, her pitch rising.

"I regret having told you anything! Why did I ever think you would understand?!"

"Understand what? That you tried to kill your friends? I'm supposed to _not_ be concerned with the fact that my own brother loses himself entirely to inebriation to the point of murdering his friends and comrades-in arms?! Or That you show up at my house unexpectedly and without much notice? Or that you hadn't eaten anything since breakfast yesterday? That you slept through the whole day? That you did not even come down for dinner? That you had an apple, _an apple,_ for breakfast this morning! That you look like a shadow of yourself..."

"Bleh! A shadow!"

"Yes, a bloody shadow. Look at yourself, for God's sake!"

"Spare me your feminine exaggerations!"

"And what's with all these directed comments at my sex or yours? Since when? Mama raised you better than this." She was pointing the knife at him now.

He approached her dangerously and bellowed, "Well, maybe she didn't. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I _AM_ a monster, Cecile! Maybe all along I have been the monster that I look like," he gestured to his figure, "but you all just REFUSED to see it!"

Tears were beginning to cloud her eyes. Tears of rage.

"How the fuck could you say that? What will you do next, strike me?"

They stood so close to each other, their eyes exchanging the same lightning force brought about by their equal tempers.

"The bloody hell with you, Cecile, I'm sorry I ever thought this was a welcome home."

And he stormed out, leaving her in the kitchen alone, clutching her belly and sobbing.

...

"There you are!" a high-pitched, almost childish, feminine voice called happily from behind the tree he was lounging against.

His eyes lit up to see his little sister. Being the youngest of the family, the sixteen-year old Emilie was always such a joy to be around. Unlike them, she was shorter than all her siblings. She was petite, round and had vivacious curves. Her eyes were those of her brother's and they had a perpetual twinkle in them. To many men in the village and beyond, Emilie du Vallon was sought-after and she thoroughly enjoyed the attentions. With her easy-goingness and her natural charm and constant cheerfulness, she was a desirable wife to many. The men fell in love with both her innocence and the allure of the seductive figure this innocence concealed. Naturally, of all his siblings, Porthos was the most protective of her.

He got up and she threw her arms around her neck. He squeezed her in a tight hug until she almost ran out of breath and laughingly begged him to put her down. She twirled for him and he carefully admired her.

"The Comte de Beaugrand had new frocks made for us in the latest Parisian fashion!" she exclaimed.

"Looks too fitting, if you ask me," he said distastefully. He wasn't sure whether it was the frock that showcased her figure more or whether she had simply grown into the attractive young woman that she was and that no matter what frock she wore, she would certainly turn the heads of everyone in the room. He was sure someone will propose to her soon, if no one had already done so. But he also made it known in the village that anyone with a hint of interest in his sister will ultimately have to answer to him - Porthos, Musketeer of the King – in a duel. This had precisely the desired effect: utter and complete discouragement, which left the disappointed Emilie time after time wondering why one young man or another who seemed so in love with her would never even touch her, let alone propose to her.

"Bertrand came to fetch me. He heard you and Cecile argue," she said tenderly, holding his hands in hers.

Porthos sighed, "Yeah, it wasn't pretty."

She grimaced.

"Come, let's go back, you'll make up!"

"I can't. She hates me," he pouted.

"No, she doesn't, you big oaf!"

And with that, she dragged him back to the house.

...

The house was filled with the delicious scent of caramelized onions, sautéed garlic and tomato sauce infused with herbe de Provence.

Cecile had made one of her brother's favorites: rustic ratatouille in the way their mother made it, which further fueled Porthos' shame of his comportment with his sister. And so, he spent the entire afternoon begging for her forgiveness, kissing her hands and employing himself usefully to help her around the house. They had cried, argued some more, cried some more and then finally embraced.

While the musketeer was busy setting the table, the two sisters were whispering in the kitchen.

"So, you think there's a woman?" the youngest whispered, wide-eyed.

"I almost have no doubt about it."

"Then, let's ask him!"

Cecile pulled her back from her apron, "We will do no such thing! And anyway, he won't tell us."

"Why wouldn't he? He always talks about Lady this and Comtesse that and courtesans and whores."

Her sister smacked her, "Hush, you little prick! Ladies don't say such words."

"I'm not a lady," she whined.

"You never know, you could become one some day," Cecile said proudly. With her looks and generous heart, and a little more education in good manners, Cecile hoped her youngest sister would marry well and above her station. And with Porthos' connections and hers, who knows? Everything was possible.

"You think he was in…in… _love_?" She could barely say the words. The notion of Porthos in love was comical as much as it was practically impossible.

Cecile only raised her eyebrows in a "it's entirely possible" expression.

"I've never seen him like this. Last night, he was holding the pillow to his person as he slept. As if it was someone dear to him," Cecile pointed out.

"Oh dear, I only had ever done that when Olivier de Perrot broke off with me and I was desperately heart-broken," Emilie replied, recalling her feelings of disappointment.

"Precisely. He wreaks of heart-break. It's the only explanation."

"Then we must distract him! We must introduce him to someone." Emilie wore a mischievous smile. She knew precisely how to accomplish that. And she knew just the person she will introduce him to.

Cecile looked at her suspiciously. She had an inkling of who Emilie had in mind but she wasn't sure it was a good idea. Although… but before she could say anything, Porthos had come back into the kitchen.

"I saw you got the mill fixed, by the way," he remarked.

Emilie jumped up and beamed. This was the perfect opportunity to bring it up, "Katherine fixed it!"

"Who the hell is Katherine?"

Bertrand walked in briefly to fetch some glasses, "A sorceress, that's who."

"Oh hush, don't listen to him," Cecile intervened.

"What, a young woman shows up in the middle of the night on one of our horses, her dress muddled with blood and mud and all in disarray and then we learn that she speaks many languages and magically fixes machinery! Have you heard of such a thing before, Porthos? A woman, fixing...things!" he said dramatically, "I have no doubt she bewitched the horse. To top it off, she's got red hair. Now, if that's not the definition of a sorceress, I don't know what is." Bertrand concluded, proud of his own powers of deduction.

"First of all, her hair is a dark mahogany auburn, not RED," corrected Emilie.

"Second of all," Cecile put in, "it was all nuts and bolts. I saw her do it. Heck, I couldda done it myself if someone had taught me, nothing complicated!" Turning to Porthos, she whispered, "He's just jealous he wasn't able to fix it himself."

"And she's of noble upbringing," continued Cecile in the defense of their guest, "of course she speaks many languages. And may I remind you, it's not the first of our horses that had run away and come back to us. You spoil them too much and they remember you forever. You're more a father to them than your own children sometimes."

"Say whatever you like, she's a sorceress to me and I won't go near her."

"You didn't think so at first when you were generously admiring her figure. Don't think I didn't see you."

"Oh, come now, I can't look at a woman now?"

"You have a woman right here," she gestured to herself, "Unless I've grown too fat for your taste." She stormed out in tears.

Bertrand panicked. Anything but displeasing his wife. He shoved the glasses in Porthos' hands and ran off after her.

"No, Cecile, please... It's not what I meant. Come back here. You know I love you with all my heart!"

...

Porthos shook his head and laughed. He can't deny that certain moments of domesticity between a married couple had its charms. For the longest time, he was never able to think of someone to fit that image for him. Until recently. With _her. _They would probably bicker constantly but they would have been happy together.

The voice of Emilie pulled him away from his thoughts.

"Oh, and she is so handsome and pretty, brother! What a fascinating sight her hair is. God knows, I have never seen anything like it before. I'm sure you have, of course. But oh, and how smart she is! She is only two years my senior but it feels as thought she is an accomplished lady of thirty!"

"Then what's a woman like her doing all the way here?"

Emilie's eyes twinkled mischievously with the gossip she was about to relay.

"Oh, she was betrothed to a very important man in court. You know him! The Comte de… Drat, I can't remember for the life of me! You should ask Cecile. Something like Cherforchet?"

He looked at her with raised eyebrows

"Don't think that's a real name..."

"Well, it doesn't matter, but oh it's so romantic and tragic, for she was in love with someone else, a soldier. Isn't that lovely?" Emilie swooned.

"Well I feel sorry for her. Soldiers are terrible to fall in love with. She's probably better off with that Comte de Forchet."

"No, she's not," Emilie was indignant, "He's a terrible man!"

At that moment, Cecile came back into the kitchen, a look of triumph on her face. Porthos turned to her.

"And how do YOU come to know of all this?"

"Well, it's no secret that the Comte de Rochefort is an odious man."

"Ro-rochefort, you said?"

Cecile nodded, "I thought you must have heard, seeing as he's practically your nemesis and you all spend time in close proximity due to your duties to the King and Cardinal."

Porthos froze. His heart began to race. Everything began to piece together in his head...

He swallowed.

"And, erm, did she say who was this soldier she was in love with?"

He could feel the sweat seep through his chemise from under his arms.

"No, she did not," Cecile squinted at him.

What were the odds that a strange young woman riding a Cardinal's horse would show up on her doorstep just two weeks earlier with a heartbreaking story and then not long after, her brother would turn up unexpectedly with the same symptoms? He, who only visited them once a year.

There seemed to be some overlap in their stories and the reaction of each to the mention of the other was certainly not one of indifference. What luck was it that the horse had brought her here of all places! No, that wasn't luck, and Cecile didn't believe in sorcery either. But she did believe in divine intervention and it was clear to her now that those two were meant to be together. She will get to the bottom of this right now.

"Apparently they met at the King's ball, which means he was either a high-ranking officer or a musketeer," Cecile emphasized the last word.

Emilie gasped, "Do you think it was the musketeer Athos? Oh, he's so dashing and mysterious!"

Porthos tensed up, and Cecile was there to remark it. _This will be fun_, she thought to herself, as a coy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"I think I prefer Aramis, actually," she said casually, "He's so handsome and dreamy and has such charming features. And oh, how gentle and polite he is!"

"I think Athos is more the type for Katherine," argued Emilie, "He's so smart like her and they would have such elegant and intelligent children!"

"Oh, I'm not sure, I think the gentleness of Aramis would suit her more. Whoever he is, though, he had been an imbecile to lose her, what a shame! Especially with that voluptuous figure of hers."

Porthos' palms were rolled into fists and his jaw was tense. He was clenching his teeth and his breath was audible. He was stewing, Cecile knew and she was having the time of her life. In his ear she whispered, "And I had the fortune of helping her to a bath so I know what I'm talking about."

But Emilie continued with her narrative, "It was a violent rupture, too. There was an altercation apparently and she was hurt. Such passion, could you imagine! This is why I think it was Athos."

*SLAM*

He couldn't take it anymore. He banged his fist on the table, startling them both.

"Athos and Aramis are honorable men and musketeers," he said through clenched teeth, "They would never hurt a lady. And I think you two should stop this scandalous speculation about the lady's honor."

"Well, no one said anything about her honor," Cecile replied defensively. There was no longer any doubt now.

"Maybe you should come meet her, brother," Emilie nudged him playfully. "I think she's just the girl for you!"

Cecile held her breath. If he had any suspicions about the identity of the lady in question, then she expected a strong reaction from him at her sister's suggestion. Instead, he quietly sat there and with a sad smile on his face he quietly said:

"I think she just might be."

And Cecile understood. Porthos was in love with this Katherine, or whoever she was, and desperately so. She sighed of relief knowing that she did the right thing by not sending her back, by protecting her and hiding her.

"What did you say her name was?" he questioned Emilie.

"Katherine."

"Her last name?"

"De Villebois," Cécile replied.

De Villebois...de Villebois. He searched his memory. Why did the name sound so familiar?

"It's not a real name, of course. I've never heard of any nobility by that name," Cecile remarked.

No, it wasn't nobility. It was Gerard's last time. _Oh God_... It _was_ her... It was Marianne! Marianne was here. It was her real scent, and he was so close to her! His spirits lit up and a ray of hope shone through his darkened spirits.

Alas, he was too lost in his thoughts to notice the figure of his eldest sister towering over him. For a split second, he was transported back to his childish self, to a time when he had gotten himself in trouble and his mother stood in front of him with that severe expression and he knew he was about to get his punishment.

And sure enough.

*SLAP*

"Cecile!" cried Emilie in astonishment, "What's the matter with you?"

"It was YOU, wasn't it?" Cecile pointed her finger at Porthos.

He looked up at her in quiet defiance. What could he say? Yes, it was him. He was the musketeer in question. _He_ had hurt _her_. _He_ had let her go. _He_ had abandoned her to the arms of Rochefort without any afterthought. It had now become clear to him that the marriage had been arranged. That that was what she had tried to tell him. That maybe she had come to seek his protection and he turned her away. That she had run away to escape it. That he had hurt them both for nothing, instead of fighting for her. That he had dishonored himself.

His silence was confirmation enough and Emilie gasped with all her might.

"Is that true?" she cried.

He nodded sheepishly and told them the whole story.

...

When he finished, he was overcome with regret and his eyes glistened. All he wanted was the warm and comforting embraces of his sisters. Their consolations and support.

But instead, they rained down on him with slaps and punches. To add to his misfortune, the children had walked in at that moment and decided that this looked like a fun activity so they joined in.

And so, the mighty Porthos found himself amidst adversaries he could not win against: an angry pregnant woman, an indignant hopeless romantic and three rambunctious and very active children.

Emilie was absolutely enraged and heartbroken on behalf of her new friend to the point of being in tears.

"Ouch, ouch, stop it!" he cried.

"How could you do that to her!"

"I know, I know! It was an accident I swear!"

After a while they all calmed down and the two sisters finally embraced their brother.

"How did you know it was her?" he asked Cecile.

"The goat cheese and the figs gave her away," she grinned.

He chuckled, content that Marianne had taken to his special treat.

"Do you like her?" he awkwardly asked Cecile.

"I like her very much. She's good for you. I was surprised at first, to be honest. She was a tad cold and technical. But she seemed to come from a cold home. It's funny the more she ate, the more agreeable she became."

"She's a bit too smart for you," Emilie put in, not bothering to hide her disappointment that it wasn't the narrative she had had in her mind all along, that there was no tall dark and handsome musketeer like Athos. Instead, it was only her droll of a brother.

"She's simply too good for me," he said defeatedly.

Cecile smacked him on the head.

"Shush, any woman is lucky to have you. Even her. I think you're good for her too."

"Well, I need to make things right even if she won't have me afterwards."

"Oh, she will have you. I'm sure of it."

"Where is she now?"

"At the Comte de Beaugrand's manor. She was engaged as a governess there and we share a room together," Emilie informed him excitedly.

Porthos rose, unceremoniously causing little Peter, who had been sitting on his lap for the last few minutes, to drop to the floor on his behind.

"Take me to her."

"Hold your horses! You can't just go there and make a scene, you'll cost me my position. There's a ball tomorrow and you could come then."


	30. Deja Vu

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 30: Déjà vu**

The Comte de Rochefort scanned the room like an eagle scouring the land for his next prey. She was there, he was certain of it. His informant was solidly reliable.

Just two weeks ago, he received the abominable order from his superior, the Cardinal Richelieu: He was to marry the Dandurand girl. How could His Eminence ask such a thing of him? He, who was loyal to him no matter what, who had been by his side through thick or thin, who would give his very life for this man. But to ask him to take a wife not of his choosing was nothing more than an insult, a deprivation of freedom in a way even. The whole affair made him question his devotion and the path he was on in life. And to question his own devotion to His Eminence was just beyond reason. This was all her fault.

So when he received information about her possible location, he had set out from Paris with the vilest humour possible, and he stood there at this ball carrying a large grimace and features that spelt out utter disdain towards no one in general; he had come to loathe this girl and everything associated with her.

Aside from the marriage, ever since the convention had started, there seemed to be a series of strange events that had occupied him: first was the bizarre appearance of the Comte de Rameau at the convention. Second was his connection with this girl. This made Rochefort realize that he actually knew nothing of her or of her family. As much as he asked around and searched the records, there was no information to be found. It was as if they did not even exist.

Then these high-profile robberies began to happen, sporadically over the last couple of months but then intensified a great deal during the convention, necessitating his early departure to investigate. And by God, did he have an inkling! It was so similar, almost exactly the same pattern as last time. In the past, similar events had led up to the first appearance of the Iron Mask. And sure enough.

He _had_ made his appearance well enough, albeit this time as discretely as possible. If it weren't for that useless old man, Lemay, who had survived, no one could have known. Why was he hiding? Last time, he raided Paris and challenged the entire monarchy as if it was his playground. He had made such a show of things.

Wasn't he dead? Were all their efforts at Belle-Ile for naught? For God's sake, how was it even possible that he survived? But then, again, no one had found that wretched submarine, nor any pieces of it. They only found his mask. That wretched ominous piece of metal.

He inhaled sharply. Another thought hadn't crossed his mind before: what of Milady? Surely, the body of a woman would have been more easily spotted among the wreckage. He shook his head violently. He should focus on the woman at hand now, not the one who was lost.

This infuriating spoiled flirt who had humiliated him at the King's Ball, then posed as Prince Philippe's love interest while he, Rochefort, had been declared to be courting her. She soiled his name. And then, she had the audacity to consort with none other than a musketeer! Oh, the mockery, the shame! To be traded in for a musketeer. It wasn't even Athos, whom he would even consider a viable rival. Disgusting! And that abomination of a Jussac had a field day with his jokes and mockery throughout the taverns. Oh, she had made an absolute fool of him and he will make her pay for it.

But the worst of all was to discover that her family had a connection with the Iron Mask himself. Yes, they had been attacked, yes her uncle was kidnapped by them. Yes, she had run away to save her life – or so the surviving old man had said. But he couldn't help but wonder… He had seen the submarine sketches, he had seen that lowly assistant helping Aramis with the sordid machine. He seemed to awfully know what he was doing.

Was _she_ an accomplice? It was the rational question to ask. No, she was such a careless girl. She was naïve and generally unaware of the extent of her ignorance. She could hide her secret passions and "hobbies" from the common man, but Rochefort was intelligent and quick and it wasn't hard for him to deduce a few things about her. No, she didn't have what it takes. She wasn't Milady… _Milady_… His thoughts drifted to that sultry seductress once more.

_Catch yourself, Rochefort_! He reproached himself. He can't be missing her, can he? He sniggered to himself, _you fool_! _She's dead_._ Focus… focus…_. He continued to scan the room with his eye until he finally noticed a familiar figure at the far end of the room. She had one foot in the ballroom and the other out a door. It looked as though she was conversing animatedly with someone. Another man, perhaps, he thought. This little whore couldn't get enough!

He fixed his eye on her, waiting for her to turn around so he could see her face. Not long after, she did turn around. her eyes casually scanned the room and as she spotted him, her eyes flit wide open and her smile gave way to a panicked expression. _Yes, it was her_.

A malicious smirk dessinated on his face as he unhinged himself from his spot and decidedly marched towards her.

…..

The young dark-haired musketeer examined his reflection in the basin of the little fountain. He smoothed out a lock of his hair and straightened his doublet. He grinned to himself, pleased with his appearance and excited for the night ahead.

He had spent the day grooming, preparing and rehearsing: he took a long calming bath infused with his signature pine and rosemary, to which Cecile added some spearmint for extra "freshness". Then, with the help of his savvy sister, he cleaned his uniform and starched it to perfection. He then surrendered himself to Cecile's expert hands as she groomed him, shaving off his any unflattering facial hair for a fresh look and combing and styling his hair to its usual flattering glory, instead of the tangled mess it had formed over the last couple of weeks.

Finally, she shoved more of the fresh spearmint into his mouth and instructed him to chew on it for as long as possible so that when things go right, he would not be an off-putting droll.

Their plan was perfect and Marianne suspected nothing. She had previously agreed to Emilie's proposition to introduce her to someone, which slightly pained Porthos. She did not know it will be him and yet she had agreed to meet someone new. But no matter. He would wait in the inner gardens, under the moonlight and he would wait for her as long as it took. Fortunately for him, it proved to be a warm and glorious autumn night, with the moon high and almost full in the sky, providing a perfect romantic setting for his grand gesture.

Emilie would guide her here, to the entrance and instruct her to walk to the fountain where he was waiting for her. She would be shocked, he knew. Maybe unpleasantly so. But he didn't care. He will go down on his knees and ask her forgiveness if need be. He was prepared. And he will tell her how he felt, he will confess what an ass he had been, and beg her to take another chance on him. He will tell her he loved her. And he so looked forward to embracing her, to holding her in his arms again.

He even dared to let himself imagine that, after all was said and done, he would take her upstairs to his bedroom in the farm and make love to her all night long. Even though Cecile had made sure he took that idea out of his head. But he didn't care. Nothing mattered except her, except reuniting with her, gazing upon her once more, confessing his love to her. The rest will surely follow. He paced around with excitement and nerves, butterflies flying all around his large stomach.

…

"The dancing should start in five minutes so make your way to the inner gardens, by the little fountain. Oh, how romantic, I'm _so_ excited! How I wish this was happening to me," Emilie swooned. Marianne could never tell if Emilie's romantic outbursts were more endearing or exhausting, but she smiled tenderly at her and it was all she could do not to give her a big hug.

Marianne turned back to the room to make sure no one was watching her and then….

She saw him.

There at the far end of the room.

Her eyes widened with horror and surprise. What was _he_ doing here?

"Emilie!" she hissed. "He's here…"

"Who's here?"

"The man I told you about."

Marianne was in a complete panic. Did he see her?

Emilie peeked into the ballroom, absolutely puzzled. Porthos was not supposed to be here, not inside. No, he was waiting outside. Did he change his mind? Oh, she will be so angry at him if the Comte sees him crashing the ball uninvited!

But then her eyes landed on a tall dark-haired man, handsome and rugged. Exactly like the ones in the stories. Except… this man had one eye, while the other eye was covered in a black patch. His valid eye rested on them, on Marianne particularly, and Emilie had never felt so much malice in her life.

…

The Comte de Beaugrand had been promptly informed by his butler as soon as the stranger had arrived. He frowned at this impolite intrusion, but he also knew exactly why the Comte de Rochefort had come. Just as his butler was whispering in his ear, the Comte's eyes flit across the room to where Rochefort was standing and, tracing the man's line of sight, he realized that Rochefort had found what he was looking for.

He sent his butler hurriedly in Marianne's direction, with instructions to Emilie to take the young lady out of the ballroom and stay with her at all times.

In the meantime, the Comte de Beaugrand had practically leapt over his guests and just as Rochefort had extended his hand to grab the arm of the petrified young woman who had escaped him not once, but twice before, somebody yanked her by the waist through the door outside the ballroom at the very same moment that a strong meaty hand landed on his shoulder, eliciting a painful shock throughout his body. He turned around with an irate face.

"Rochefort, dear fellow!" bellowed the Comte de Beaugrand in as much good humour as he could possibly muster.

Pleasantries, pleasantries, thought Rochefort. He inclined to his host and dryly said, "Forgive the intrusion, Monsieur le Comte. I was in the area on some… business."

"Ah, how lovely," replied the host with a nod and a smile, eyeing his guest up and down. _Clearly, you had just come straight from Paris, _he thought to himself.

Seeing the commotion, the Comtesse de Beaugrand had joined the two men. She was flustered at seeing the newcomer, for he had not been on the guest list that she had meticulously prepared and the Comtesse de Beaugrand did _not_ like surprises.

But the newcomer changed faces upon seeing her and put on a more charming one. He inclined to her as he brought her hand to his lips.

"Darling, we are being honored by the presence of the Comte de Rochefort," her husband announced.

She blushed under Rochefort's gaze. His reputation as a talented lover made this simple gesture all the more alluring to her.

"You are very welcome, Monsieur. The dancing will start in a minute. Shall we find you a partner?"

He inclined again, "Alas, Madame, I must decline your generous offer. I'm afraid there is only one woman who interests me here."

"Oh?" the Comtesse giggled inwardly, batting her eyelids at him, to the displeasure of her husband.

"May I have an audience with your governess?"

"The governess?" she gasped out loud, drawing attention from those around her. Her husband stiffened. Then, recovering herself, she whispered, "The governess? You cannot be serious!"

"I fear that I am."

"And what business do you have with her?" the Comte replied coldly.

"That, I cannot disclose. I must insist, however, on the Cardinal's orders."

Ah, he played the Cardinal card.

"Very well," conceded Beaugrand, "Allow me to escort you to my private bureau where you can wait for her while I send someone to fetch her."

"I am much obliged."

With that, they headed outside of the ballroom into the hallway leading to the private chambers, just as the musicians struck the first chord and the dancing began.

…..

Taking her by the waist, Emilie snatched Marianne out of the ballroom, shaking her out of her state of paralysis and prompting her into action. Hand in hand, they ran through the hallway and into the private quarters to take the main corridor there towards the inner gardens.

"Someone's coming!" Marianne whispered. They plastered themselves against a wall as the figures of two men, one taller and more imposing than the other walked hurriedly past them towards the Comte de Beaugrand's private chambers.

Emilie stifled a gasp with her hand, letting out a mousy squeal, which prompted Rochefort to halt and look around him.

But the Comte de Beaugrand hurried him on forward and anxiously looked back to make sure no one was there.

The two young women moved quietly towards the large glass door at the end of the hallway that led outside onto the inner gardens.

To their dismay, the doors were heavy and creaked loudly when they opened. They looked at each other with wide eyes as they heard the footsteps of the larger man stopping, and then changing direction towards them.

"No, I'm sure of it, this time," he called out to his host.

As soon as the door was even slightly opened, Emilie used all her strength and she pushed Marianne violently through the door into the gardens. She then turned around and locked the door behind her. In a split second, she had produced a cleaning rag from her pocket and pretended to be polishing the glass as if absolutely nothing had transpired.

"Really, Rochefort, you're being overly neurotic!" the Comte de Beaugrand called after his guest as he traipsed behind him.

Rochefort stopped short in front of the glass doors only to see a maid busy polishing the glass panes.

He shoved her aside and looked through the glass.

"Please, monsieur, I only just finished wiping that," she said, feigning a tone of utter desperation. Nothing made a man more uncomfortable than a woman in tears.

"Let the poor girl to her work, Rochefort," pleaded the Comte.

She was whimpering now and it was beginning to make him deeply uneasy.

He looked at her with disdain, folded his cloak onto himself and left without a word.

Emilie breathed a sigh of relief as her employer gave her a thumb up with a wink and followed his guest.

….

Porthos had been sitting by the fountain, with a rose he had picked up from the garden, a sheepish smile on his face, completely lost in his fantasies while staring up at the moon.

But he was startled out of his pleasant reverie when he spotted two figures moving rapidly in the hallway towards the glass door and struggling to open it while looking nervously behind them. Something was up.

He got up and began walking along the garden path that was surrounded by hedges and that narrowed down to a little doorway that gave way to the fountain.

…

For the petite and lively person that she was, Emilie possessed an uncommon physical strength and stamina.

She succeeded in opening the heavy glass doors singlehandedly and then she shoved her friend into the garden with such force that Marianne went flying along the garden path.

She was extremely caught off-guard by this gesture that, not bothering to look where she was going, she had tripped over herself, one leg in the air, lost her balance and…

FLOP!

Her eyes shut instinctively as her brain anticipated the pain that would come from such an inopportune fall.

But the ground never came.

Her arms, which had flung themselves in the air at a last attempt for balance had just as reflexively moved back and enclosed themselves around a solid object. As she hovered above the ground, she could now determine that it was a sturdy arm that had wrapped around her waist just in time, while another hoisted her up from her back and her foot had been caught between a pair of very strong legs, anchoring her firmly onto the ground.

A familiar, yet seductive scent wafted through her nose, awakening all her senses and everything in her that just some minutes she thought was dead.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

"You!" she whispered, breathless.


	31. Back to You

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 31 Back to You**

"You!" she whispered, as he caught her.

The feeling of her body between his arms ignited him. As he looked into her eyes it was as though he had finally come home.

Alas, that precious moment he had been so ardently looking forward to, the moment that he had hoped to prolong and devour, was short-lived. A movement through the glass door had caught his eye as a familiar silhouette could be seen moving decidedly towards the doors. As he approached, Porthos could see a part of the stranger's face hidden under an eyepatch. He grimaced. _That insipid bastard, Rochefort!_ He somehow found her and had come to drag her back.

He spied his sister pretending to wipe the glass in an attempt to discourage or delay the intruder, but he knew she wouldn't be able to hold him up for long. He had to act quickly.

After securing Marianne in his arms, he made a swift jump into the tall hedges with such force so that they would come out on the other side unhindered by any branches. Having realized at the last second what was going to happen, she instinctively put her hands to her face and buried herself as much as she could in his chest.

They successfully made it to the other side before anyone had the chance to spot them. Porthos bit his lower lip, suppressing a loud groan as he landed violently on his back. His arms tensed around her body, and he buried his face in the crevice of her shoulder, where the voluptuous waves of her hair fell, hoping it would muffle any further sound.

For a long period of time, neither one of them dared move. On the one hand, it was the safest thing to ensure that, had anyone succeeded in penetrating the gardens, they would not hear a sound nor suspect their presence and then they would promptly leave.

Certainly, this was far from the meeting he had anticipated, going into the evening, but there was something deliciously indecent about the way she was perched on top of him. He could feel her breasts pressing down onto his chest, as he struggled to suppress his own body from reacting to this sensation. They were ever so close to each other and any hint of an erection would certainly be remarked.

Her body began to shift between these strong brawny arms that still surrounded her as tightly as when they had caught her – a degree of tightness that was unnecessary given that they had already fallen and she no longer needed this physical protective barrier. But Marianne stayed quiet for as long as she could to savour this warmth haven that had enveloped her, her heart alternating between the excitement of the moment and the fearful anticipation of the moment he would decide to let go of her and liberate her. But he didn't move and so she stayed, until her anticipation became overbearing and her breathing difficult.

She squirmed her hands free and placed them palms down on his chest, closer to his neck. She lifted her head and pulled her body up closer to his level and their eyes finally met.

They were both still panting from the excitement of this strange meeting. They swam in each other's eyes. They had been apart for what seemed like a lifetime and now… now they were so physically close, it felt like it would be the most natural thing in the world to simply melt into each other.

His gaze shifted between her eyes and her lips, going lower to her breasts, which were almost popping out of this ill-fitting corset with all the tight squeezing her upper body had just received. How appetizing she looked! And how conveniently placed she was! She was so accessible to him…But he did have the right to it? To her? After everything?

They looked in each other's eyes searchingly, as if trying to read the other's memories of the short time they had been apart so as to reacquaint themselves with each other. But the only thing that seemed apparent was the desire that had suddenly overtaken them in the heat of this moment.

He had her right there. The woman of his dreams, the woman who had broken his heart, who had shown him _what_ his heart was capable of. He had dreamed and thought of nothing but her ever since he had met her.

…

She should have known it was going to be him. But how did Emilie and Cecile find out the truth? She thought she hid it so well. How did he know she was here? Probably the same way Rochefort did…

She reveled in the warmth of his body, under the force of his colossus figure. She felt safe again, warm again… _loved_ again. The look in his eyes was unmistakable. He hadn't come to reproach her. He wouldn't have come at all if he didn't want her.

There were so many thoughts going through their heads. Tangled messy thoughts. Many questions and many things to say and yet… no one moved.

She just held his gaze, her eyes flitting from his downwards to lips. She wanted him. She wanted to devour him, to have him. She wanted him to possess her. It had been too long. It was as if every cell in her body was awakening, her heart was beating again. She felt alive once more. As if reborn.

She quieted her thoughts and let her newly found energy take over. She slid herself along his body, and lifted herself up gently.

She felt his grip on her loosen as one arm disengaged from her waist. He brought it to her face, as he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and smiled.

"It's nice to see you," he whispered.

As a response, he only saw the hint of a mischievous smile on her lips before she lowered her face to his and their lips reunited with a force so violent with passion, Porthos felt he was going to explode right in that moment.

….

They embraced wildly for a few minutes as his hands moved furiously anywhere on her body that was accessible to him, starting with her back, her waist, her neck, her hair, her thighs. _Blast_! This dress was such an impediment. He tried to lift the skirts but from the position she landed in, she seems entangled in this spacious fabric that formed it.

Once again, he placed his arms tightly around her waist and in a swift move, he flipped her over, reversing their positions. Caught by surprise, Marianne gasped and couldn't help but let out a chuckle.

Now on top of her, he shifted his waist uncomfortably, feeling that discomfort grow between his legs.

As in response, Marianne attempted to part her legs more to give him more room, or at least to lift up these infernal skirts but it seems like such a struggle to them both. Frustrated by this impediment, the young musketeer did what he did best:

*RRRRRIIIPPPPP*

Marianne's eyes flit wide open and she gasped in bewilderment. But he didn't leave her enough room to contemplate the fact that he had just torn her dress in half. And oh, good riddance to this abomination! He moved back on top of her and she was now free to wrap both her arms and legs around his waist as tightly as she could.

The music from the ballroom was perfectly audible through the windows on the side of the wing, drowning the delicious moans and sighs that were escaping the two lovers. Their tongues danced along furtively, as their bodies moved together in a lascivious rhythm.

…

She sighed on feeling his erection grow in between her legs. How she longed to unite herself with him! She could feel a ball of pleasure forming in between her legs, warm and moist. He placed his hand behind her neck, anchoring her further to him. She was completely possessed by him, under his control and she reveled in that!

"Forgive me…" he breathed in between furtive kisses. "I was a fool… completely idiotic…"

She could only smile and pull him in for more kisses. It was all forgotten. Somehow, seeing him, feeling him, _loving_ him… she forgot everything and she never wanted to remember. Yes, he still cared for her! He had come to make up with her, to take her back. And she will accept and they could finally run away together. She pulled him to her even more.

"I know you ran away from him…" he continued.

He knew! She was jubilant. He knew she had escaped for her life, from that villain. Thankfully, she didn't have to relate that horrific night in detail. He had come to protect her, to save her from the wretched Iron Mask. Her guardian, her protector! He was here once more and she would give anything for him.

"What you did was brave… and I was a fool not to realize…"

Everything he had rehearsed was coming out disjointed. He could barely think. But he still felt the need to say something, to reassure her of his devotion, to ask her forgiveness. Because if he was going to continue this, he didn't want to unite himself with her under false pretenses. That wasn't his way. He still had some honor left.

She shivered as she felt his tongue gliding in between her breasts. Oh heavens, if only he could tear that corset apart and liberate her!

"That it was because of your uncle and the Cardinal… ," he went on, "That otherwise, you would have come with me… You didn't love Rochefort and couldn't stand the idea of a marriage to him…"

He continued to kiss her furtively, without remarking that the last thing he had said reduced her pace.

"What?" she whispered.

He had moved down to taste her neck. He brought his head up for an instant.

"Rochefort. You were forced to marry him? You tried to tell me and I was an absolute arse about it. So, you ran away from him."

Marianne dropped her head and averted her eyes. _Ugh!_ So, he _didn't_ know. He only knew the story she had told Cecile and Emilie. Then how did he come to be here? Did that mean he hadn't actually been looking for her? That his being here was all just a coincidence?

He continued to kiss her neck but she was gradually tensing up. The thoughts in her head becoming more coherent and more troubling. More… rational. What in God's name was she doing?

"I didn't run away from Rochefort!" she snapped at him with indignation.

His tongue was midway in the air, about to caress the top of her breasts when he abruptly stopped.

"What do you…?" he was confused.

"I did _not_ run away from Rochefort!" she repeated, "Now get off of me, if you please."

He swallowed with difficulty. What did this mean? Could it be? That she had lied? That she had seduced him again only to betray him not long after?

"PORTHOS!" she yelled at him, seeing that he wasn't moving.

As if in a daze, he disengaged from her in a mechanical way and helped her up.

….

He brushed his fingers through his hair. His cheeks went red with shame. What a fool he had been! He stared at her as she brushed down her dress from the dust and dirt and ungracefully removed the branches from her hair, making it more dishevelled.

"I… don't understand," he began, "If you didn't run away from him then you were going to marry him?"

Marianne rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"That had been the plan," she answered unceremoniously.

He looked away from her, the anger rising to his head.

"Do you love him?" he uttered with clenched teeth.

"For God's sake, Porthos, is that all you care about? Rochefort?" she yelled.

"I CARE that the woman I…" he paused, re-examining his words before he said too much, "that the woman I _care_ about cares about me as well and is not off traipsing with someone else while I am just… just a fool being taken advantage of and laughed at."

Marianne lost her temper. She stomped her feet and clenched her fist to the side while she painfully poked him with her finger, "YOU! YOU KISSED A WOMAN right in front of me because you thought it would be amusing to make me JEALOUS!" she yelled. Thankfully, the music was too loud that no one could hear them.

He rolled his eyes and sniggered, "Not this again…"

She shook her head and turned her back to him, "You have no right to demand any explanations of me. I owe you NOTHING."

She was about to storm out when he grabbed her wrist to stop her. He panicked. He didn't want to lose her again. But Marianne revolted reflexively at this gesture, her right hand instinctively covering her left arm and Porthos froze. He immediately released her, the memory of their last altercation and the consequent guilt he felt flooding through him.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me. Don't leave, please," he pleaded.

The look in his eyes tugged at her heart strings. He seemed genuinely remorseful.

"Marianne…" he whispered.

Her name in his voice sounded so woundingly delicious. All she wanted was to go back to him, to forget everything. But she couldn't. She felt alone. He hadn't come here for her, after all. He hadn't been looking for her. He just found out by chance that she was here and he came to… to what?

"What are you doing here?" she finally spoke after a long moment of awkward silence.

_Let's see… I was grieving the fact that you left me for another man and I thought you had played with my feelings and betrayed me. So, I acted out of sheer foolishness, plunged myself into an excess of alcohol, drinking and women. I ruined the mission and soiled the reputation of the musketeers. Oh yes, and I almost killed one of my comrades-in-arms. And then I was suspended._

He blushed deeply, scratched his neck, "I… well, it's a very long story."

She sighed and looked away, not knowing what to say. Did she even want to know? She felt really tired all of a sudden, almost defeated.

He took a step closer to her and lifted her chin up.

"I _am_ sorry."

She turned away once more. She felt a lump forming in her throat. It was such an unfamiliar feeling and it rarely happened. She just wanted to tuck herself away in his arms and think of nothing more.

"Tell me what happened, please."

She stared at him straight in the eyes and she exhaled. _Fine._ She cleared her throat.

"I ran away from the… from the…" she lowered her voice, "from the Iron Mask."

….

Marianne looked at her lover with confusion as he obscenely roared with laughter at her declaration.

"Oh God! I knew you were many things, _ma belle_, but a jokester was not one of them," he jested, wiping away tears from his eyes.

"I'm _not_ joking," she snapped.

He sniffled, "Of course you are! I blame myself. It's all those stories I had been spinning to you and the Prince. Surely, you must know that some of them were exaggerations," and in a more serious tone, "But I can assure you that the Iron Mask is undeniably D.E.A.D." he made sure to spell out the last word as he went into another fit of laughter.

Marianne crossed her arms on her chest and just stared at him in utter disbelief.

"You're more of an imagination-lacking simpleton than I ever thought," she icily shot at him.

His face immediately changed and he realized that she wasn't actually joking. He looked straight at her, hurt by her words and also by the mere fact that she was lying. Straight- up lying to him. And he realized: once again, Athos was right. He didn't really know her. One day, she offers herself to him, the next day, she's with another man, she doesn't even deny it, then she lies about, then she runs away. Maybe Bertrand was right, maybe she was also a sorceress. But whoever this woman was, she was not all sound in the head and he was foolish to have trusted her, to have felt anything for her. Suddenly, he could only see her the same way he looked at the whores in the brothels: someone distant, someone disposable and whose history was questionable and muddled.

"Alas, Madame," he retaliated, "I don't entertain the opinions of whores."

Her eyes shot wide open as her palm violently crashed onto his chiseled face, leaving a red imprint.

"I NEVER want to see you again," she screamed and turned on her heels.

But just before she could even take a step ahead, the music from the ballroom had come to a screeching halt. They heard the sound of a window breaking and then… a pistol shot followed by screams and a big commotion from the ballroom.

From the screams, they could make out, "THE IRON MASK! THE IRON MASK IS HERE!"

And then another pistol shot.

The two lovers were frozen in place and Marianne's heart almost leapt out of her chest when a figure with a cape and a pointy hat appeared on the window overlooking the garden. She could see the moonlight reflecting brilliantly off his metallic face. He was barely there before he disappeared.


	32. Athos & Gerard

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 32: Athos & Gerard **

**(Bonus scene at the end)**

_The events of this chapter take place right after chapter 27, resuming from the end of the Bonus story: An Experiment…_

The rain was unrelenting and already he was soaked to the bone. His hair framed his face asymmetrically while his clothes clung jealously to his body. He was plastered onto the wall, throwing glances onto the third story of that imposing building that was Cardinal Richelieu's residence.

He sighed with frustration. He was confident he could slip in without anyone noticing. It was more the getting away part that concerned him. The guest wing where his patrons had stayed was dark, indicating that it was empty. Should he attempt to break in, he will undoubtedly leave water marks all throughout his path, which will ultimately draw the attention of the Red Guard patrolling the premises.

Soldiers of the Red Guard were _not_ the brightest, but still. A trail of mud and water towards the guest wing would surely draw their attention. He could try the secret passages but no doubt their Captain, the Comte de Rochefort, had been smart enough to intensify the security on those too. He sighed again.

What was he hoping to find, anyway? It had been two weeks. The Comte and his Guard had probably conducted the preliminary investigations and by now, the apartments would have been emptied out of all belongings and cleaned up in preparation for any potential guests. So, now what? Go back to Aramis' demure? Wait for the morning to act, as she suggested? What would they do until the morning anyway? Could they possibly find rest and sleep? He smiled coyly to himself, thinking of what had passed between them, already feeling the organ between his legs pulsating.

Otherwise, he could do exactly what he had told her he _would_ do: go to the Captain of the Musketeers. Yes, it was late. But he could sneak in. Although, that would be like signing his own arrest warrant and possibly worse. He was a wanted man after all and should they arrest him, he will no longer be able to find Marianne. And then what?

The thoughts raced within his head as he struggled to make his decision. He alternated between craning his neck to look up at the apartments and between putting his head down from the rain to contemplate some more. Throughout this little ritual he had temporarily adopted, he was only aware at the last second of a cold sharpness that had made contact with his neck.

"Don't make a move," the assailant said.

…..

A few hours earlier, Athos had exited his Captain's bureau and headed towards the nearest tavern where he sat in a corner for a while, twirling a glass of ale in his fingers.

For once, he contemplated the place with acute soberness. Men, drinking and laughing and telling stories, occasionally harassing the pretty servers who put up with these disgusting habits so as to keep their positions and earn a living. They were anyone; soldiers, traders, the occasional nobility, travelers. But mostly, soldiers. Is this really the place where he would die?

The words of his Captain taunted him.

_"…there are two possible outcomes for you: either you learn to forgive, open up your spirit and your heart and move away from the past, which will give you a much happier and lighter life albeit maybe more exposed to hurt and rejection. Or, you remain who you are and you continue with your ruminations and your haunted past until your bitter end, which will most likely occur in a nameless tavern somewhere. It is entirely your choice."_

The second option was how Olivier de la Fere had died, but Athos shall die fighting side-by-side with Aramis and Porthos.

The choice was very clear. It had been clear to him since the day he met that blond musketeer. It had been clear since he knew the truth about this musketeer; since he felt his heart beat for the first time in years. It was there all along and he knew it.

The voice of Porthos suddenly intruded onto his mind.

"_She should be your __wife__. But you won't even marry her, Athos! Even now that you're a free man. Your wife is dead, we were all there, we buried her. But still you can't let go. It's pathetic, if you ask me."_

What a moronic fool he had been! His heart constricted and he cringed when his own voice now came onto the stage of his mind:

"_But you can't be serious about her. She's a virgin Comtesse. You don't want to get tangled up in that. She's not like those barmaids. She's born and bred for marriage…But even if you had serious intentions, she's not the person for you… She's a child!...naïve and selfish…a flaky flirt. And who knows what that uncle of hers is up to…Besides, look at what she's made you do. You can't possibly make a spectacle of yourself for her! What kind of woman asks a man to do that? I'll tell you what kind, the manipulative kind. The spoiled kind."_

Porthos was right. He knew nothing about her and yet he was so determined to be against her, to separate them from each other. And for what? To think that Porthos was actually in love with her! That he was going to ask her to marry him, to take her with them on the mission. And he went and sowed the seeds that ultimately ripped them apart. That ripped his friend apart and consequently their friendship.

He knew Porthos trusted his opinion and judgement above all else. He knew that Porthos would listen to him no matter what. He had abused this trust. He had tarnished it, manipulated his friend. He had been so caught up in the ghost of this woman who was once his wife, he ended up _becoming_ her: A manipulative bastard! Even in her death, she still controlled him. But _he_ was the one who had allowed her to possess him. You can't blame the dead. Ghosts did not exist. Yes, he _was_ pathetic.

He lowered his head in shame to think of what he had said to _her_…

"_You loved Francois and he loved you with all the force and passion anyone can ever muster. The truth is, you have never known betrayal in your life. You don't know what it feels like, how can you possibly understand?"_

He slammed his mug onto the table, startling a few of his neighbors who eyed him with annoyance.

No, the choice was very clear. He needed to sort this mess out. And the key was the young woman. He will find her for Porthos, he will protect her with his life if need be. He will fix things.

But in order to do that, he needed his partner first. He left his coins on the table and ran out into the rain to the blond musketeer's demure.

…

Through the corner of his eye, Gerard could glimpse a hint of the red uniform worn by his assailant. _Ah, a Red Guard, _he thought_, this will be easy_. With a faint smirk, he reacted swiftly by ducking underneath the blade and rolling to the other side. This bought him enough time to unsheathe his own sword and before it was barely out, the stranger had pounced on him with such speed and agility that was uncommon amongst the Red Guard.

It is only when the blades clashed and they stood face to face, that Gerard realized he had made a terrible miscalculation.

"You're… you're not a Red Guard," he declared above the noise of the metal clashing.

The stranger paused and circled him like a vulture. "You offend me, Monsieur," he replied, with a smirk.

Gerard gulped. Despite the weak light that emanated from the Cardinal's residence, he could now make out the identity of his assailant. And even if he wasn't able to, his skill alone gave him away.

Yet, he couldn't help but admire the musketeer before him: tall, handsome, rugged, sculpted. The noble features and the sombre blue eyes accentuated his grand presence. This was Athos, the King's Musketeer, his favorite, some even say. He was the best musketeer in the realm and the most skilled swordsman in France. He was not a person, he was a legend, a mythical God.

For a split second, the mind of Gerard intrusively conjured an image of the musketeer in the process of fu*king the other young musketeer he himself had just bedded. As a lover, his passion must be relentless, unstoppable and absolutely ravishing. He could even hear the voice of Aramis calling out the name of "Athos" as he moved himself aggressively within her… within her many different…orifices. _Good God!_ He shook his head violently to concentrate.

Athos lunged at him and Gerard defended himself. They danced with their swords elegantly for some time. Gerard expertly dodging, or turning around, or rolling away. He used all the agility and nimbleness in his arsenal. He was good with his sword, but not _that_ good – most of it having been self-taught. It was a miracle he held up for so long, but that was mainly thanks to the use of his body rather than his sword. He knew that sooner, or later, the blade of Athos will inevitably find him.

This impromptu duel seemed to amuse Athos. He was at first taken off-guard by the audacity of the young man to face him in battle, but then despite himself, he was impressed by his opponent's agility and anticipatory skills. He fought him as he would fight with any musketeer in training. As he would fight with Aramis. Their skills and their strengths were so similar. And probably so were their weaknesses. They moved in almost a similar fashion and it wasn't long before Athos could discern Gerard's pattern. He knew he could end this at any time he pleased but he kept going, wanting to see how long this young man would last.

Gerard could sense that the end was approaching. Athos had caught on and he wasn't able to adopt new patterns in time. He was forced to use his sword more often to defend himself now, as Athos was driving him into a corner. He could run away, certainly, but he was too honorable to do so.

Slash, slash, clash, lunge, parry, lunge and… Gerard's sword flew into the adjacent woods and he fell on his behind. The musketeer towered over him as he approached his blade to the young man's chest.

…..

Gerard was propped up on his elbows, staring at the blade that Athos was directing across and around his chest, as if exploring some unknown territory, looking for a soft spot to pierce. The delicate and deliberate movement of the blade was almost…sensual. But Gerard was shaken out of this sensation when the blade gently rested on his heart. He closed his eyes.

The blade, however, kept moving in the same gentle streak. Like a lover's caress. It moved back to the middle of his chest and then upwards to his neck until it rested underneath his chin, causing him to lift up his head to face his assailant.

Their eyes met. Athos was struck by the unusual shade of green of the young man's eyes. Their color shifted depending on the light and it had been mesmerising to watch their many shades throughout their little duel. Athos stared at the rest of the young man's body admiringly. He would have made a fine soldier, a musketeer, even, he thought to himself. He was perfectly lean, his muscles developed in all the right places. There were even these delicate muscles in the forearms that enabled a firm yet flexible manipulation of a sword or any other… similar object it held.

He contemplated his body carefully: the lean chest with the delicate muscular undulations; the chiseled handsome face that was rich in youthfulness; the strong slim legs that gave way to sculpted muscular thighs. One quick glance in between his legs confirmed to Athos that this was a worthy adversary. Other than his physical appearance, his eyes radiated a certain noble defiance. Athos had fought many men in his time and he could tell that this was no wanted criminal, but an honorable man who was wrongfully accused. There was a certain melancholy about him – an aura that was all too familiar, throwing Athos eight years into the past into the moment he had first met Aramis.

Suffice it to say, he could now see what Aramis saw in him, because he had seen the same things in her. Even he, himself, couldn't help but be intrigued by this stranger. Possibly even drawn to him in the same way he was attracted to Aramis – an unsettling notion.

….

Until now, they hadn't exchanged many words. It was Gerard who broke the silence.

"If you mean to kill me, then you will oblige me with a dying request," he spoke authoritatively, "Two requests, in fact."

"And what makes you think I owe you anything so as to grant you a request?" Athos replied, intrigued.

Gerard scrutinized him.

"You have defeated me in an honorable duel. You are bound by your honor," Gerard continued.

"I'm not so sure, Monsieur. After all, one could say that I do have a grievance against you."

Gerard held his breath and closed his eyes.

"It was no coincidence that you appeared in the same place as I, was it? You followed me."

"And you're intelligent as well," replied Athos sarcastically. He had been just a few paces away from the doorsteps of his beloved musketeer when he saw the door open, letting out a young man. He didn't have to see his face. He knew right away.

Gerard felt utterly helpless and defeated. He should have run away. Blast with upholding his honor! Who will rescue Marianne now? She was gone forever. Who knew where she was, with whom, and what dangers had befallen her? If only he had stayed, if only he hadn't let his anger and grief get the best of him. If only he hadn't gone to Aramis' demure. Marianne was more important.

Seeing the tortured look in the young man's eyes, Athos spoke gently, "But I will indulge you. What is your request, Monsieur? Or, rather, your requests?"

A light of hope shone through his eyes, destabilizing the musketeer.

"First and foremost, I beseech you to find the Comtesse Marianne de Dandurand and to ensure her safety with your life, if need be."

Athos raised his eyebrows. _A heavy request_! He was now certain that Gerard had nothing to do with the disappearance. No man who had committed a crime would be foolish enough to return to the scene in the hopes of rescuing his victim.

"And the second?"

Gerard looked away.

"To exonerate the musketeer Aramis. He had nothing to do with any of this. He's not an accomplice."

A long moment of silence passed between these two, the only sound was the rain still hammering down on them. It almost seemed as though the occasional lightning that came from the heavens actually originated from the electrified tension between the two men, as they continued to stare at each other in defiance.

The blade moved deeper into Gerard's skin; he could almost feel it penetrating through. He certainly felt a trickle of blood roll down his neck. He watched as the musketeer's hand tightly gripped his sword, at the ready to change its angle to strike. Athos had made decision.

In a swift movement, Gerard heard the blade move, cutting the rain above him and then… nothing.

He opened one eye hesitantly to see the outstretched hand of the musketeer, his sword in its sheath. He looked at him questioningly, bewildered with this near-death experience.

"It appears, Monsieur, that we have common interests. Which - for the moment at least - does _not_ make you my enemy."

…..

The sound of metal clinking echoed through the small chamber.

"Is this really necessary?" complained the young man, his fingers encircling the metal bars that held him prisoner.

Athos chuckled, "I can't have anyone see that _I_, also, am consorting with an alleged accomplice of the Iron Mask. We must play by the rules, at least for tonight. Besides, how else will I ensure you won't escape and do something foolish?"

"The more we wait, the more danger Marianne could be in," he whined.

Athos sighed, "A few more hours won't make a difference."

But he was taken aback all of a sudden by the sight of tears that appeared out of nowhere on his prisoner's face.

Gerard turned away to hide his shame, wiping his face with his arm.

"You know how dangerous it is. She is a young woman. Unarmed and alone. There are robbers everywhere, men who are predators… she could be… you know what could happen… what they could do…" his voice was wavering.

Athos abased his eyes. Yes, he knew exactly. It suddenly dawned on him just what a disaster this whole thing had been. If only he hadn't interfered, if only he had supported Porthos instead of discouraging him. If only he had spent more time with Porthos, if only he had asked more questions, showed more interest rather than outright rejection. If only… He brought his hands to his face. _Yes, a disaster_. And now this young woman's life was in danger and he was complicit in it. His face turned the same color as his doublet.

"There's no use in thinking this way, Monsieur de Villebois. We have both ridden long distances today and we need our rest. Besides, we have been under the rain for a while and neither of us would be of any use if we catch an illness."

Having not received a response, he approached the holding cell.

"I give you my word that we will find her."

…

The following day was spectacularly sunny. Athos kept his word and he came with a tray of food and some news for his prisoner.

"We are in luck, M de Villebois. It appears that the Comte de Rochefort had been called away urgently on business."

"And you're certain that all the belongings of the Comte and his niece are being kept in his attic?"

Athos smiled mischievously and nodded.

"Now tell me everything you know, if you please."

Gerard took a deep breath and relayed the details.

…..

They were able to slip in unnoticed, thanks to Gerard's detection of secret passages. Naturally, the attic was heavily guarded but Athos brought a handkerchief doused with a sleeping potion to bring down the guards quietly.

For a split second here and there, Athos could almost swear he was on a mission with Aramis. They had similar humour, similar movements, a similar pattern of thought. Athos had to admit, he was even enjoying himself.

They rummaged through some trunks, pulling out clothes and papers and other belongings.

Athos searched the Comte's belongings while Gerard couldn't help but go through Marianne's items.

He pulled out one of her dresses, the one of pastel peach she had worn throughout the convention. He brought it to his nose to get a whiff of her scent and ended up burying his face in it. How he missed her! He missed her humor, her complaints, her adorable expression when she wanted something and couldn't have it. But mostly, the closeness. She was his home and he was homesick.

"Gerard," Athos called out to him, gesturing for him to continue the search. Gerard was startled by the unceremonious use of his first name and blushed at this subtle reproach.

"Exactly what were you planning to do when you've found her?" Athos asked casually as he examined some golden cufflinks that belonged to the Comte.

Gerard didn't answer. His fingers merely tightened their grip on the dress he held.

Athos looked up. It suddenly dawned on him. How best could a man protect a woman he cared for?

"You were planning on marrying her, weren't you?"

Gerard blushed and looked then answered in a low voice, "It's the most reasonable option. I can keep her safe. She will take my name and we could disappear. Already, everyone thinks she is dead. No one will know. No one will come looking. I can make a life for us."

Athos swallowed with difficulty. Yes, that _was_ the most reasonable solution. But his heart broke for Porthos. What misfortune! Of all the women in the realm, he _had_ to pick the one who was hunted by assassins and an angry Rochefort.

"And do you think she would be… agreeable to this solution?" he asked gently.

Gerard sniggered, "I highly doubt it."

"Then how do you propose to accomplish this mission if she is unwilling?"

Gerard sighed and crumpled the dress further, "I haven't yet thought that far."

As the dress folded a certain way, they heard a paper crumple. Gerard found an inner pocket that was carefully sowed up in the inner layer of the dress. He carefully tore it open, producing a thick letter.

They exchanged looks as Athos opened the letter and began to read it. It was a letter by the Comte de Dandurand.

"Well, you better start thinking, my friend, for this is a dangerous game you two have found yourselves in. A _very_ dangerous game."

….

**BONUS SCENE**

Athos struggled with himself for a while. Can he bring himself to ask him? Why does he need to know, anyway? To have confirmation, maybe? She loved Gerard, he was now sure. From everything about him, it was difficult _not_ to love him. If he himself had been inclined otherwise, who's to say _he_ wouldn't have fallen in love with him? He had the one thing _he_ didn't have; the one thing Capitaine de Treville pointed out to him: generosity of spirit.

He was honorable, contrite and fiercely loyal. But there existed an innocent vulnerability about him that he protected well and only shared with those he felt safe around. Just like Aramis. Naturally, they would understand each other. Gerard understood her instinctively. Unlike him, who would constantly say the wrong things and cling to his misconceptions.

And yes, he was sure she had shared herself with him and vice versa. Every time he came close to him, he could smell her on him. But far from feeling jealous, he felt ashamed. The shame and regret danced throughout his veins. He had hurt her… again and again. Then, he had let her go. How will he ever come back from this? Maybe there _was_ no going back. Maybe they simply weren't meant to be. He made her miserable. He let his ghosts and his insecurities into the sacred space of their intimacy. He failed to protect her from the one thing he never thought he would have to protect her from: himself.

He was resolved: Aramis deserved better. And if that can't be him, then he will at least work to ensure her happiness no matter what it cost. No matter how painful it was.

The words came out with great difficulty.

"Does… Aramis know about your plan?" he attempted to sound casual.

Gerard, who had his back turned to Athos grinned to himself. _And there it was._

"No," he simply said.

Athos cleared his throat, "And you don't think you owe it to… him to tell him?"

He turned around to face the musketeer, with a coy smile on his face.

"I don't, no. I do love her, if that's what you're asking. But we're not for each other."

Athos exhaled with… relief?

He said nothing and turned back to putting the belongings they dug up back in their place.

"Do you know," Gerard began, "For your glamorous reputation, you demonstrate a remarkable degree of stupidity. And frankly, if I may, you're a downright bastard."

Athos couldn't help but laugh. Not once had Gerard demonstrated any kind of unsolicited aggression or vile language. This was just adorable.

Gerard was puzzled at the musketeer's reaction.

"Do you know," Athos began, mimicking Gerard, "I don't disagree with you."

"Exactly, what is your plan in regards to Aramis?" Gerard asked, in the same tone that Athos had previously employed.

Grinning, Athos simply said, "Same as yours."

"And do you think she would be… agreeable to this proposition?"

Athos sniggered, "I highly doubt it."

"Then how do you propose to accomplish this mission if she is unwilling?"

"I haven't yet thought that far."

Gerard grinned, "Well, you better start thinking, my friend, for this is a dangerous game that you find yourself in. A _very_ dangerous game."


	33. Return of the Iron Mask

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 33: ****Return of the Iron Mask**

Porthos couldn't tell whether he was more astonished or more mortified. Marianne was right and he had discredited her in the vilest way. In every opportunity he had with this woman, he succeeded in proving himself to be the biggest arse in the realm. With flying colors, too. How could he ever come back from this?!

Marianne began to head towards the doors when he pulled her back.

"You cannot possibly be thinking of going in there."

"Not that you would care," she attempted to shake his hand off her, "Let me go, you moron! My friend is in there! Emilie is in there!"

"Oh God, Emilie!" Porthos realized. He had to think fast. "Head to the stables, bring Thunder around the servant's entrance and we will meet you there in ten minutes. If we're not there, mount him and run."

"No, I'm coming with you," she protested.

"No, you're not." He towered over her. Then, he coyly grinned and said, "Besides, you probably shouldn't go anywhere dressed like this," he gestured to her torn dress.

She slapped him again, with more violence this time, making him wince.

"Totally deserved it…" he remarked to himself as he opened the door and let her through. They went their separate paths: him to the ballroom and her to the stables.

…

"_Espèce de crétin_!" Marianne swore loudly as she stomped towards the stables. She wrapped her arms around her body so as to secure the fabric of the dress decently about her.

"_Ventrebleu_!" She looked around the stables with utter frustration. There was a rather large number of horses…

"Now, which one of you is Thunder?" she demanded, placing her hands on her hips, allowing the fabric of the dress to undo itself.

To her surprise, a horse in the corner whinnied upon hearing its name. She approached him carefully and after some scrutinization, she recognized him as the mighty beast that matched his rider's large figure and bulky presence. She began to fiddle with the rope to untie him. She will have to lead him out, there was no way she could possibly be able to mount him by herself. Meanwhile, her colorful curses echoed throughout the stables as she struggled with this menial task.

….

The young colossus was on his way to the ballroom, when he ran into his sister, who was attempting to fight off a masked man. He pushed him off of her and struck him into unconsciousness. He then embraced her with all his might, instructed her to run towards the servants' entrance and headed into the ballroom. Into the chaos.

There were many… Where had they all come from? The ladies were being ushered away and those who couldn't make it in time had jewels ripped away from their necks and arms. Some of the gentlemen and the servants were dueling with this agile army of masked men.

There, In the middle of the ballroom, he spotted him.

The Iron Mask, in flesh and blood.

He unsheathed his sword. But as soon as he touched it, his own weapon reminded him of an important fact he had neglected: in his rehearsed plan to win the young Comtesse back, he had brought her dagger with him and was going to offer it to her again with renewed promises. But in the heat of the moment, he had completely forgotten. The panic enveloped him when he realized that he had sent her away on her own, in a house that was infested with criminals, half nude and absolutely unarmed.

….

"Aaarrgghh! _Sacrebleu_! This is absolutely USELESS!" Marianne lashed out at the harness knot. It looked so simple and yet she lacked the strength to undo it. _How the hell did he tie this thing?_

The horse whinnied and gently nuzzled his head at her arm.

"Oh, come off it!" she snapped at him, "You're just as useless and dense as your owner. That _bastard_! I _can't_ believe him. Rochefort _this_ and Rochefort _that_. So obsessed with this _Rochefort_, _mon Dieu_!" she complained to the horse.

"And then he shows up unannounced, smelling all… fresh and… and… _good_. He's a cunning fox, that's what he is," she waved her finger at the horse, who was looking at her with his big eyes. "What made him _think_ I wanted to see him again in the first place? Blast, this _insipid_ knot!" she whined again.

"Do you need a hand, Mademoiselle?" a voice came behind her.

"Ah, Monsieur Marchand, thank _goodness_ you're here! Yes, if you could just…" she stopped short as she turned around to address the stable master and instead found herself staring at a large imposing figure with a face that was unreadable save for two red slits for the eyes and one bigger slit for the mouth that was slightly curved upwards in a perpetually menacing smile.

….

Marianne dropped the harness and froze. Her heart beat so loud it was audible. She could barely breathe and the air suddenly felt cold and biting on her nude legs and arms. The horses whinnied uncomfortably.

She couldn't think of what to do. She was unarmed and cornered. The only thing she could do was run, so she bolted.

But it wasn't fast enough. He caught her by both her arms and rudely placated her to the floor of the stables, anchoring both her arms in his and placing the weight of his body on hers. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"I've only just found you, my dear. I can't let you go just yet, can I?" his voice was thick and muffled. She stared at his metallic face. The last time they had met, he had offered her his arm, like any gentleman would have done. She had been afraid, certainly, but she hadn't been _terrorized_. Something instinctively told her that he hadn't intended to physically harm her and in a messed-up way, she had trusted him in that regard.

But there was something very different about him this time around. She couldn't help but note that he looked different. Bigger, wider, more built and muscular. There was something rude in his manner, aggressive for the purpose of aggression. And yet something so… _familiar_?

"What do you want from me? What have you done with my uncle?" she shot at him.

He only laughed in response and slightly lifted himself up to admire her body underneath him. Marianne looked at him with disgust. She thought about spitting in his face but that would be useless.

"It looks like you have done the work for me already," he said, grazing his gloved hand on her nude thigh.

_No! _Suddenly, she felt like a small animal caught in a trap and she began to panic. He was larger than her, stronger than her and already, he had her pinned down. He could have his way with her and she could do nothing about it.

"Let me go!" she cried, "I'll build you anything, any machine you want but let me go!"

He only laughed more.

"Ah, you pretty little thing. We'll get to that later, don't worry," lowering himself on her more and parting her legs further, he continued, "You see, I have been thinking about you since the last time we saw each other. Thinking and…" He let out a carnal groan that disgusted her.

His hand grabbed her thigh painfully, making its way to her bottom. Marianne winced. "Stop," she whispered.

Her voice was barely audible; it was lost within the loud commotion from outside. Alas, he didn't stop. He kept going. She closed her eyes, unable to find her voice, she could feel warm liquid flowing down the sides of her face from her eyes. She couldn't breathe.

"Stop," she whispered again. But she was barely even audible to herself. She felt so paralyzed. Her body reacted and she began to spasm underneath him. He placed his hand on her corset and was about to tear it when a strong hand attached itself to the nape of his neck and yanked him off of her.

…

It was never his habit to formulate a plan, nor to think things through. Tonight was no exception. He had entered the ballroom and spied Rochefort duelling with the Iron Mask himself. He ran to his aid, which Rochefort passionately rejected, seeing as how a victory against the Iron Mask had been an honor he had missed out on in the past. They exchanged a few words, after which Porthos sheathed his sword and headed towards the stables.

He had opened the door to the stables and saw the woman he loved pinned to the floor, an unknown man plastered to her, pinning her forcefully to the ground.

In that split second, everything shut down: his mind, his senses, his reason. He didn't need to think.

He yanked the man by the back of the neck and, aggregating all his life force and energy into his giant fist, he launched it like a canon at the face of the intruder.

"Nyaaaaah!" he growled.

No, he did not think it through…

…and he only realized it at the very last second when he saw that the face of this man was encased in a metallic armour.

His fist collided with the iron and the pain shot through him like a hideous lightning bolt. He couldn't tell what happened but he was sure he heard two noises: Marianne's screams and the sound of his bones cracking one by one.

He fell on his back with the force of the pain, his growl resembling a wounded wild boar.

The latter stood up and unsheathed his sword, laughing menacingly at the idiocy of his opponent. All it would take was a swift prick to the heart and that would be it. This giant colossus of a musketeer was writhing in pain, unable to use his fists, and better yet, unable to handle any weapon. He had the advantage.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged at Porthos, who, in turn, rolled over a few paces to avoid the sword. They engaged in this dance for a minute; the Iron Mask lunging and Porthos rolling to avoid it. Eventually, the Iron Mask caught on, and he forced his opponent to roll right onto his injured arm.

"SACREBLEUE!" Porthos cried. While he was writhing in his new-found pain, the undefeatable musketeer suddenly felt the tip of his opponent's blade pierce through his doublet. He closed his eyes instinctively.

He will die.

He will die for her and there could be no better death.

At the very last second, he heard a commotion as Marianne had risen and, as if possessed by some mythical force, she jumped and threw all her weight onto her assailant, causing his balance to falter and his sword to wobble.

They wrestled for some time until he finally swung her to his side and, without any afterthought, he hurled her to the nearest wall, where she hit her head on a harness hook and fell unconscious, the blood gushing out of her skull.

…..

Porthos was an imposing man and a musketeer no less. Yet in that moment, despite his natural virility, hot tears cascaded down his mucky face as he witnessed the violent demise and potentially last moments of the woman he had come to love dearly.

"Marianne… no…"

Taking advantage of this distraction, and of Porthos' half-surrendered spirit, the Iron Mask lunged at him one last time with his sword, when…

*BANG*

He abruptly dropped his sword as a sharp pain radiated through his arm. He brought his hand to the spot and rapidly assessed the situation: blood. He had been shot. He barely looked up to see who shot him before he surprised his assailant by rising so suddenly and running towards him like a madman. Before the stranger could produce another bullet, the Iron Mask somersaulted into the air, grazing the shoulder of the newcomer before running away and disappearing into the night.

Still placated to the floor, Porthos craned his neck to see no one other than the Comte de Rochefort standing at the entrance to the stables.

….

_A few hours later, in an unknown hideout…_

"AAAHHHH! Take it out already!" a man shouted in pain. He bit on a stick as he felt a pair of fingers move through the hole in his arm and close in on the bullet. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets from the sheer pain.

After the wound was dressed, he lay calmly on the table, still panting and attempting to regulate his breath when he heard a pair of familiar footsteps approach the door.

"Leave." He ordered the other man in the room, who was cleaning up the blood and bandages.

The wounded man barely opened his eyes.

"Come to check on me, monsieur le Comte de Rameau?" he ventured sarcastically.

*SLAP*

The palm of the newcomer struck the wounded man in the face.

"You moronic devil! I did not raise imbeciles and incompetent arses."

The young man lying down sighed. He opened his eyes and stared at the mask of iron that lay open on a chair in the corner of the room. How powerful he felt when he wore it, how invincible! But to his father, he will always be weak and a failure.

"You had one task and one task only: to get the girl."

"I had her right where I wanted her," he said, licking his lips and insinuating an inappropriate gesture.

His father raised his arm to slap him again but this time, the son was too quick for him. He grabbed his arm and twisted it around his back, causing his father to wince.

"I am getting very very tired of the way you have been treating me. And frankly, I will do as I please with her. She's mine."

"We _need_ her for the machine," replied Rameau through clenched teeth. With one last pull on his arm, the young man released his father.

Panting, his father spoke, "Listen to me, Maxim and listen clearly: I forbid you to harm her. You will not defile her while I live, do you understand?"

"Why, if you wanted her to yourself, you should have said, then," jested Maxim.

"This is not how we work. Your brother would never have…"

Maxim cut him off and shouted, "My brother! My brother! Always my brother. In case you had forgotten, he FAILED you on Belle-Isle."

They stared at each other with such hatred until Maxim finally said, "My brother. Your worthless illegitimate bastard whom you loved more than your wife and child."

"Nothing much has changed, has it, Maxim? Still ever so affectionate towards me, brother."

The two men were startled to see the newcomer, standing at the door, his cape flung around him and the light of the candle flickering on his metallic face.


	34. Of Horses and Men

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 34**

It was a few hours past midnight and the generous light from the moon was in large contrast to the darkness that descended on Bertrand Bouchette's farm.

Porthos hadn't moved from the kitchen table since they arrived. He stared at his hand which was throbbing with unbelievable pain. It was clumsily wrapped with small wooden sticks and bandages. Owing to the large build of the musketeer and his undeniable strength, there was no knowing – or controlling – his actions once anyone touched his injury, even if to repair it. So, Rochefort took it upon himself to attend to it, so as to avoid any potential injuries to the women of the house. The latter now lounged in an armchair in the living room of his hosts, in an attempt to secure some shut-eye after the excitement of the evening.

But Porthos couldn't sleep. The pain was only a small part of it, compared to the agony in his heart. The image of Marianne's body, lying heavy and lifeless among the hay, half her face covered in blood, kept intruding onto his mind. After the Iron Mask had left, he forgot about his pain as he crawled over to her, lifted her body to his, the tears uncontrollably falling from his face onto hers, mingling with the dried blood and the mud in her hair. For the first time in his life, Porthos felt weak and helpless.

Upon witnessing this moment, Rochefort understood: this was no dalliance.

He didn't know what possessed him to act. Perhaps, he still had a hint of morality left in him after long years of serving and executing the orders of the Cardinal. Or perhaps, despite his best efforts, he was slightly moved by the vision of this invincible legendary musketeer crouched over the body of the woman he loved; like a scene from a Greek tragedy.

He hoisted the girl onto the horse called Thunder, and helped the dazed musketeer mount his horse behind her. He then went back into the manor and quickly found Emilie, who, despite her aversion to the Comte de Rochefort, couldn't help but feel excited as she rode behind him, her arms encircling the waist of a tall, dark and handsome stranger. Just like in the fairy tales.

…

The sun was beginning to wake up, but his eye lids were heavy and he was nodding off on the kitchen table when he heard a rustle of fabric and footsteps coming down the stairs.

The two men stood up, at the ready to provide any assistance should the lady feel suddenly weak and faint. She looked positively yellow and her eyes were sallow and almost colorless. Her hair was tied up and a thick white bandage encircled her head all the way to her eyebrows. Porthos immediately recognized the dress of pastel blue that she habitually wore. The same one she wore that fateful day when they fought at the stables and he left her behind.

Rochefort observed them carefully. The face of Porthos lit up like a shiny coin. It was as if he was given a new life. But she seemed less inclined. She stared at his arm with some degree of sadness, before she walked past him with no acknowledgement. They watched her as she poured herself a glass of water and installed herself on a chair in the kitchen.

She sat fully upright, taking deliberate sips as she stared outside the window at nothing in particular. She was somber, reflective, cold and distant. But there was something different in her manner, a certain pride and resolution – a certain authority - that Porthos had never seen before. For a split second, he was reminded of Athos. He looked away in shame and embarrassment. What could he possibly say to her now? In their first altercation, he had accused her of having no honor. In their second altercation, he flat-out declared her a whore. To her face, no less. Was it even possible to make the situation worse? But he had to remind himself that every time he thought he couldn't make it worse, he ended up doing just that. This time, he will be like Athos. He will have a plan of action which constituted of one thing and one thing only: to say absolutely nothing.

"How did you find me?" she spoke with a thick voice.

"I…" Porthos began, only to realize that she hadn't actually addressed him. She addressed Rochefort, who was standing behind him, his arms across his chest. She addressed her _fiancé_, Porthos reminded himself. She glanced disdainfully at Porthos, prompting him to lower his head in embarrassment, before turning her gaze at the man behind him.

"I had a reliable informant, Madame," he said frankly. She raised her eyebrows questioningly and he turned to Porthos, "Your brother-in-law."

_Bertrand! Of course_! He was so worried about his farm, about his family, about Cecile… He did what any man with everything to lose would.

Porthos rubbed his eyes and exhaled profoundly. He had no more allies left.

Marianne only nodded silently. No one spoke for a while.

…

She broke the silence again, "What of my uncle?"

"He was taken by the Iron Mask and his people," Rochefort answered as-matter-of-factly.

"So, he's alive, then?" her voice betrayed a hint of concern.

"Well, we haven't found any corpses or anything to indicate otherwise, so yes. I am inclined to assume that he is alive."

Marianne looked down, her eyebrows furrowed with worry.

"How unfortunate…" she replied, absent-mindedly.

They both looked at her with astonishment.

"I thought you might be relieved," Rochefort ventured.

"Far from it…" She looked up, with terror in her eyes. Marianne related to them everything she overheard that night between her uncle, the Iron Mask and the Comte de Rameau. Especially the part concerning the weapon they had wanted him to build.

…..

Porthos was horrified as he listened to Marianne's account of the night she had fled. To know that he could have taken her with him that night... That all of this could have been avoided… That she would have been perfectly safe with him and… happy.

It was quickly decided that the best course of action was to head to Paris with no delay. To take advantage of the daylight, and also to ensure the safety of Porthos' family, in case those miscreants came looking for the young Comtesse again.

"Besides," Rochefort began when Marianne left the room to prepare herself, "you need to see a surgeon as soon as possible. I'm not sure my skills are adequate."

"I just don't understand how quickly… how quickly he was able to get from the ballroom to the stables," Porthos murmured, almost to himself.

Rochefort laughed heartily, "You imbecile, that would be impossible."

Porthos looked up at him with ire, "Then how would you explain it, genius?"

Rochefort grimaced, "There were undoubtedly two of them."

"I still don't understand what they want with her. What _he_ wants with her."

Rochefort closed his eyes for a minute, "My guess is, they need her to complete this machine somehow, or as an added motivation to her uncle." Which was exactly in the habit of the Iron Mask.

…..

They prepared their horses quietly in the stables. The silence occasionally punctuated by some repressed groans on the part of the musketeer, as he attempted to use his right hand and forgot at the last minute that it had been injured. It was swelling up by the hour and the pain was mounting. Rochefort came to his aid a few times, wounding his pride even more.

"I'm not your enemy," he said to him at some point. "I never desired her to begin with. Just to think of the abominable thought of marrying her," he continued with disgusted.

Porthos stared at him discontentedly with his left fist on his hip.

"Oh, I didn't mean any offence. She's not without her charms, certainly, but good heavens, I could never."

"Then why…" Porthos began.

Rochefort dusted his hands together and approached the musketeer.

"It was an order from the Cardinal."

If anyone understood what it meant to receive an order, it was Porthos. Except that now, and for the first time in his life, he was about to break one.

"_And if I ever see you in Paris again before I had explicitly sent for your return, consider yourself discharged from the regiment of His Majesty's Musketeers on the spot, do I make myself clear?" _

Yes, Capitaine de Treville had been kind in his punishment. At least kind enough not to discharge him then and there for his atrocious and embarrassing behaviour. For the time first ever, Porthos found himself caring about something – or rather someone – that was more important than his beloved profession.

But he still felt defeated.

"I saw you two in the courtyard that day…" he trailed off and moved away, back to his horse.

"Ah, yes, that," Rochefort stumbled, "About that… Since I had saved your life last night, how about we consider that account settled? Your little Mademoiselle had no part in that."

Porthos looked at him quizzically. Rochefort, who had always been assured and sarcastic was suddenly nervous.

"Do you mean to tell me that you forced yourself on her?" Porthos towered over him like a giant from a fairy tale. Even with his injury, he was still able to illicit fear in the heart of his opponents.

"Let's just say that I had been upset with the Cardinal and reacted in an…ungentlemanly way."

Before Porthos could react, he was stopped by the approaching sound of voices and steps. He kept his fist to himself this time.

…

Marianne walked past him, arm in arm with Emilie, as they headed towards a horse in the corner that Marianne thought had been prepared for her.

Emilie flung her arms around her new friend, with tears in her eyes. The young Comtesse reveled in the warmth and loving friendship of this adorable adolescent. She was herself sad to leave. As she embraced Emilie, she thought of the colorless and joyless life that awaited her, and she tightened her arms about her as if it was the last time.

Before she exited the stables, Emilie turned to her brother and shouted, "This is all your fault! I hate you!" and ran off in tears and sobs.

"Never mind her, she'll come around," Cecile comforted her brother, seeing the hurt look on his face. Then turning towards Marianne, she saw her about to mount the horse in the corner.

"I don't think so, Mademoiselle!" she called out to her.

"Forgive me… I thought…"

"You thought wrong. There is no way I am lending you a horse, not with your abominable skills."

Marianne blushed, embarrassed. She walked towards Rochefort. No doubt he couldn't wait to claim his prize and take her with him – something she was hoping to avoid. But it looks like these last moments of freedom were not to last. No, her colorless and joyless life would begin as of now.

"Not with _me_," Rochefort grinned coyly, "You'll have to lead _his_ horse. _He_ can barely hold the reins."

Before she could say anything, the cyclops hoisted her up on the horse. Her skirts lifted up completely to her bottom as she parted her legs wide enough to accommodate the girth of this horse, who was as big as his owner. Thanks to Cecile, Marianne was given riding breeches to wear underneath her dress, which came just in handy! _No more nudity in public, what a triumph_! She thought sarcastically to herself, jubilant.

….

Cecile embraced her brother tightly. "And Porthos?" she whispered in his ear, "Make things right, or else."

He chuckled and held her at arm's length.

"Just because you didn't receive any blatant reproach this time around does not mean I am _not_ displeased. The next time I see you, I hope you will be married, otherwise, I don't wish to see you at all. There!"

He kissed her forehead and her belly in goodbye.

"I love you, Cecile."

"I love you too brother."

…

He mounted his horse behind Marianne. The two women said their goodbyes and Cecile left the stables, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her dress.

"Are you all finished?" Rochefort snapped, eliciting glares from his companions. He drove his horse outside the stables, leaving the two scorned lovers to themselves.

Marianne wasn't sure what to do. The last time she had mounted a horse, it simply bolted while she just hung on for dear life. She stared blankly at the reins. She was suddenly startled when she felt the man behind her inch forward, therefore closing the gap between them entirely. She could feel his large chest on her back, his warm breath on her neck and his crotch on her behind. And oh, his smell! Despite the fact that he had rolled around the floor of the stables earlier, he smelled so good to her, so… alluring.

It was with such effort that she had to keep reminding herself of his last words to her, of the way he had treated her, of her own anger and frustration towards him... and of the mere fact that he was actually not in love with her, as he so eloquently demonstrated earlier in the night.

"Here, hold the rope tightly between your fingers, letting your thumb take the lead on the direction in which you want to go. Like this," With his valid hand, he put the ropes in hers and clasped her fingers onto it. Her body couldn't help but react to this close and intimate contact. After she followed his guidance, he proceeded to show her how to change direction, how to manoeuvre, how to control the speed. She found herself thoroughly interested and fascinated by this impromptu education. He let her demonstrate her newly found skills in leading the horse outside of the stables. After some guidance, his hand having not left hers, she was beginning to grasp the skill of directing the horse, just in time before they had crashed into the fence. Instead, she shifted the beast towards the open gate and they trotted at a comfortable speed to catch up with Rochefort.

As soon as he was satisfied with her performance, he removed his hand from hers and rested it on her back.

"Lean a bit forward," he instructed, pressing on her back slightly, "head up and look ahead," he adjusted her neck. _Good grief_, she was melting.

And then came the cherry on top: she gasped as both his hands gently rested on her thighs and moved them to part them slightly more, "To give you more room to manoeuvre," he said. He then knelt forward, putting some of his weight on her back, as he adjusted the angle of her knees. She could feel his breath almost in between her breasts. _Heavens!_ Coupled with the up and down movement of the horse, she could definitely… _oh God, no!_

Porthos smiled to himself, completely aware of the effects this exercise was producing. In both of them, too. Marianne's eyes shot wide-open as she felt his crotch stirring on her lower back.

On his end, Porthos wrapped his arms around her tightly and, before she could react, he spanked Thunder on the behind and they shot ahead with extraordinary speed as Marianne had never felt before. It was exhilarating!


	35. Master and Commander

_This chapter was intended as an experiment with the characters and dynamics. It's not necessary to the progression of the story and the reader can skip it._

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 35 : Master and Commander (or Musketeer and Captain)**

Capitaine de Treville was on a mission. He marched with decided steps, an upright back and rolled-up fists. He was not in the best of humors but he was on a quest to find the truth and that, in and of itself, gave him a higher sense of purpose, if not a divine one, that allowed him to use his influence confidently to penetrate the residence of the Comte de Rochefort in the latter's absence.

He, and two of his recruits, followed the butler of the house as he led them to the room where the invalid had been housed. When they arrived at the door, the butler nervously informed the guard of who they were and of the necessity and urgency they required to enter the room. But the guard, dressed in the habitual red cassock of his regiment, was adamant about the orders he had been given.

"Out of my way this instant!" ordered the Captain of the Musketeers.

"I'm afraid I can't let you in, Monsieur," the red guard said defiantly, pulling out his sword.

"This is the King's business. If you do not step aside, my musketeer reserves the right to convince you," Treville warned in a last attempt.

"This is the demure of the Comte de Rochefort, lieutenant of the Cardinal de Richelieu, which is under the obvious jurisdiction of the _Red Guard_, Monsieur," retorted the red guard rudely.

Treville sighed and motioned to one of his musketeers, "Very well, then. Athos?"

The one named Athos drew his sword in retaliation, whereas his comrade just looked on with apparent anxiety on his face. The uniform he wore was unbecoming. It was too big for his size he almost looked as though he was swimming in it. Furthermore, he hadn't taken off the hood of his cloak even though they were indoors. Thankfully, the guard was too focused on the other one to notice anything. Seeing that things were about to explode in a violent altercation, the butler took off in a hurry.

As the blades clashed with each other, Athos succeeded in drawing the guard away from the door, allowing the other two to enter the room.

They had barely crossed the room towards the bed where the invalid lay, when Athos followed behind them, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"That was entertaining," he declared.

"I trust you didn't do away with him? It's bad enough we're transgressing on the 'red guard's jurisdiction'," sniggered Treville.

"I was careful. But we best hurry, these…"

He was cut off abruptly by an enraged Captain who bellowed across the room, where their companion – now having taken off his cloak – was leaning over the invalid.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, DE VILLEBOIS!". _So much for discretion_, Athos thought to himself, shaking his head. Treville stomped over to where Gerard was and violently tore him away from the man who was lying helplessly unconscious on the bed. He twisted his arm and through clenched teeth he scolded, "I took an ENORMOUS risk to disguise you as a cadet and bring you to this lion's den, where you would otherwise be a wanted man. I want to believe that you are innocent but for now, I only have the _opinion _of Athos as reassurance and nothing more. I will repeat what I told you before: any suspicious movement and I will _personally_ pierce you with my own sword."

Athos rolled his eyes at his Captain's theatrics. _Always dramatic_.

Unable to extricate himself from the forceful grasp of Treville, Gerard winced with pain and replied, carefully enunciating his words, "Monsieur Lemay is _sick_. Don't you see? How do you suppose we conduct an interrogation if he can't even _talk_?"

Treville glared at the young man for a long while before releasing him unceremoniously, causing the latter to lose balance. Having anticipated the movement, Athos had quietly moved closer to the two men and Gerard fell into the arms of this imposing and elegant musketeer. He blushed and murmured a thank you before turning back to the Captain.

Gerard was right.

Monsieur Lemay was an old man and already it had been miraculous that he had even survived a duel with the Iron Mask. The fact that he was still able to wield a sword at his age was even beyond comprehension to some.

"The butler had mentioned that not a soul except Rochefort had been allowed to see him," Athos reminded the Captain. As if to verify this claim, the Captain gently moved Lemay to the side and glanced at his wound. He grimaced. _Not a soul, not even a doctor…_ This was clearly a soldier's clumsy attempt at cleaning the wound. _A Red Guard's _clumsy attempt, that is.

The Captain abased his eyes, wrinkling his forehead. The Cardinal had sent for him immediately after the incident happened. He said Rochefort had interrogated the man and he was assured of two things: one, that it was indeed the Iron Mask and his band who had carried out this kidnapping and two, the young Comtesse has survived. But there was other information that Treville had probed for, which the Cardinal expertly avoided answering. Questions like, what was the Iron Mask doing there? How _did _he get there? How did he even_ survive_ Belle-Isle?! What was Rameau's involvement in all of this? Nay, what was the Comte de Dandurand's involvement?

When Athos showed up the previous day dragging with him this young man, along with a parchment written by the Comte de Dandurand, Treville was sure that there was something deeply complex and sinister in all of this. By some miraculous fortune, Rochefort still hadn't returned, which presented the Captain of the Musketeers with a golden opportunity to conduct his own private investigation away from the Cardinal's eyes and interference. At least, for just as long as he needed.

But he was now in dismay. Monsieur Lemay was clearly dying. His wound was infected and he was wheezing. His heart was weak. The question burned in Treville's mind: if Rochefort had taken the man into his care, why not nurse him to health? Unless they hadn't _intended_ to nurse him to health at all… unless they intended for him to _die_… but why? Lemay _must_ know something.

His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of this bothersome newcomer.

"… the problem is, I left my sack with all the medicinal equipment at the garrison."

"He's beyond any help, young man," Treville said.

"He's not, Monsieur. I have just the thing, I promise! Please, we must try," pleaded Gerard. _Anything to find Marianne,_ he had wanted to add.

Treville sighed and looked imploringly at his musketeer. Athos smiled, inclined and simply said, "I'll return within half the hour."

…

A few unconscious Red Guards later, Athos promptly returned with the sack containing Gerard's medicinal tinctures and, as it would appear, a surgical toolkit.

With the reluctant help of the butler, who came up with a bucket of boiling water, Gerard set to work.

It was gruesome, to say the least, but he was completely unaffected by it. He worked quietly, diligently and methodically, frequently asking the musketeer or whoever was nearest to him for a certain tool, or to wipe away some blood or prepare one thing or another.

Throughout the procedure, Athos had to step out periodically to ensure that no other red guards were approaching the room. So far so good, but it was only a matter of time before someone alerted their whole regiment and they had to fight their way out of Rochefort's residence.

In the meantime, he couldn't help but observe the calm and commanding way in which Gerard conducted himself. He had hoped that the more time he spent with this stranger, he would uncover things about him that would make him dislike him. But it was the opposite. Athos couldn't help but respect him more for his compassion and for his skill. For the first time, he realized that his thoughts had been so preoccupied with this fascinating newcomer, he had barely thought of Aramis. He silently chuckled to himself: it all made sense now. How could anyone _not_ be so taken with this saintly presence? Could he really blame her when he himself was even drawn to him? _Good heavens!_

….

"It surprises me that the Red Guard haven't surrounded the place yet," Treville addressed the butler, who was taking away the water, now a deep red.

"Before he left, the Comte de Rochefort had warned of the possibility of your visit, Monsieur."

Treville raised his eyebrows, "Then why did the guard of the chamber give us such trouble?"

The butler merely shrugged and disdainfully replied, "As is the way with common soldiers, Monsieur: for fun or out of boredom or simply to assert their mightiness like a peacock in heat. Such _vulgarity_, I swear it!" And with that, he left the room. The three exchanged complicit looks before bursting into laughter.

…..

The silence in the room was interrupted by feeble groans. Capitaine de Treville ceased his relentless pacing and walked towards the bed of the invalid. Athos, who had been nodding off in a corner, followed suit.

After some kerfuffle, coughing and endless shifting, Monsieur Lemay found himself a comfortable position that wasn't pressing on his wound, with the aid of his interim caregiver. He was greedily sipping a glass of water as he carefully scanned the faces of his visitors above the glass rim.

"Ah, Young Treville!" he smiled kindly towards the Captain of the Musketeers.

_Young Treville?_ Athos raised his eyebrows as a mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Aramis and Porthos would have had a field day with this. He couldn't help but smile, thinking of their reaction upon hearing this and of the endless mockery Porthos would have unleashed at the tavern later on. Ah, but they weren't speaking to each other, were they? He sighed and comforted himself with the progress he had made so far in finding Porthos' mistress. They were even closer now.

"And young Jerome de Villebois!" exclaimed M. Lemay, as his eyes rested on Gerard.

Athos observed a sad smile on the latter's face as he gently said, "No, Monsieur, I'm his son."

"Of course, you are," Lemay patted his hand and with a wink, he whispered, "I was merely testing you! Sharp as ever. Just like your father."

Gerard could only smile. He had forgotten how chatty M. Lemay could be. He was a pleasant sort of fellow, the kind that was agreeable in every party. He used to come visit when Gerard was young, bringing an assortment of sweets for him and Marianne. His visits had become sparse before they stopped altogether. Gerard assumed the old man must have gotten ill and passed away but was pleasantly surprised to see him at the convention.

"I presume you have come to question me," he addressed Treville in good humour.

Treville slightly inclined, "Essentially. We did have some questions about the night when you… that is, when the Iron Mask and his people infiltrated the Cardinal's residence." He produced the parchment they had found in Marianne's dress and handed it to him, adding, "We were also hoping you could explain what's in here."

Lemay nodded and gestured to Gerard for his spectacles. As he read, he shook his head and grimaced. He then folded the paper, put it aside and removed his spectacles. All traces of good humor had disappeared. Instead, there was a darkness that clouded his face.

"Any news of the girl?" he finally said, before addressing the contents of the letter.

Gerard looked down as the Captain replied, "I'm afraid not."

Lemay nodded slowly and then shook his head. He let out a sigh of exasperation and turned to his caregiver, "I had tried to come and see you, you know. To write to you. Your father was my student and he was an excellent one, too. But Paul-Francois… It was eight years ago now… he closed his doors to the world. No more visitors, no more letters… then he shut the child away and you along with her. And that was that. He became a ghost. He disappeared and erased everyone else with him. Everyone from the past and the present."

Treville was becoming impatient with the ramblings of the old man. "Monsieur Lemay, if you please, we just want to know what happened on the night of…"

Athos gently placed a hand on the Captain's arm, cutting him off and subtly shaking his head.

"Let him talk," he whispered to him, "I have a feeling this might be important."

Lemay looked out the window and said, "I have told the Comte de Rochefort _everything _about that night already."

Gerard's head fell forward. It was hopeless. There was no more information about Marianne. What was he hoping for anyway?

But Athos' instinct proved correct not long after.

"But what I haven't told Rochefort was the real truth. To know what happened on the night Paul-Francois was abducted is to open a dusty old book into the past. And it all began a very long time ago…"


	36. Reunions II

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 36 : Reunions II**

Marianne didn't know just how much longer she could go on like this; it was exhausting. She could barely feel her legs anymore and the weight of the giant riding behind her was straining her back. _Morbleu_, he had fallen asleep, too! Yet despite the discomfort and the general annoyance she harbored towards him, she felt her heart strings tugging at her. He was badly injured and she knew that the pain of broken bones was excruciating. Perhaps it is just as well he had fallen asleep.

The meeting with the Iron Mask had stirred some unpleasant memories. She shuddered to think of them, to think of _him_ – Maxim de Rameau, her old beau. A nauseating feeling at the back of her throat reminded her just how disgusting it all was.

There was never any love nor respect between them. It was rather a game of dominance and lust that turned into abuse. She had needed to _feel_ something, to experience something, to break away from her colorless life. He was her outlet, a way to prove to herself that she had some degree of control and power that she could exercise through the application of seduction and emotional manipulation – the only tools she had naturally found at her disposal.

She had given herself and her body to him freely – albeit with certain limits around her virginity - but she didn't give it for him. She did it for _her_, although she was beginning to realize that as a woman, there _was_ no "hers" to give. She couldn't belong to herself; she could only belong to those who actually _did_ have the power and the control. Those like Maxim, her uncle, the Cardinal, Rochefort, and now apparently the Iron Mask. Even Gerard. Where _would_ she be without Gerard? If he hadn't shown up that morning when she had gone off to break off with Maxim, he would have raped her and disposed of her.

…..

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of a snort. It was loud enough to even surpass the noise of the galloping horses. She smiled to herself. She held the reins with one hand and with the other, she interlaced her fingers with the oversized hand that was clasped around her waist for support.

With Porthos, it was different. With him, she had felt loved. Truly loved. That no matter what happened between them, there was some kind of bond that cannot be broken. Still, her heart sank with the recollection of recent memories. It was following a similar pattern: he had been nice and charming at first, then he came to exhibit some possessive streaks that ultimately culminated in an act of violence. _Just like Maxim_. And yet… He _had_ a reason for feeling betrayed; he wasn't of a paranoid mentality. He had _seen_ her with Rochefort. However, the most important fact remained: he hadn't listened to her. He hadn't bothered. Not the first time, not the second time. Her word wasn't good enough. He made it clear that _she_ wasn't good enough.

Her eyes were closing when the tall man riding in front of them slowed his pace for them to catch up.

"We're at the gates of Paris," he declared.

….

Capitaine de Treville's residence was empty when they arrived, even though it was late in the afternoon.

Rochefort and Marianne stayed in the courtyard while they waited for the musketeer to return with instructions from his superior. He was barely inside until he re-emerged, shrugging his shoulders. He headed towards the stables where he spied the only living person in this unusually deserted place. His hand throbbed violently; he needed a doctor as soon as possible. He needed a _drink_ as soon as possible!

Rochefort grumbled and straightened up, not deigning to dismount and set foot in the musketeers' courtyard. _How disgraceful_! The Captain of the Red Guard journeys all the way from the middle of nowhere in provincial France just so he can run back to the Captain of the Musketeers. The sound thing to do was to go straight to the Cardinal or to his residence. But the girl was adamant to see Treville and he was not in the mood for a tantrum. Besides, his pride wouldn't allow him to go back to the Cardinal's until he has found some more substantial and incriminating evidence against Rameau and the Iron Mask. This time, he won't fail.

On her side, Marianne kept stretching like a feline until she finally plopped face forward on the horse, her arms dangling to one side. Rochefort glanced sideways at her with disapproval. She had no grace nor glamour about her whatsoever. He had frequented women in brothels with more grace and charm than this provincial aristocrat. But there was something undeniably adorable about her innocence. This insipid charming innocence that somehow managed to move him.

His thoughts were interrupted when he overheard some voices from the stables.

"Strange thing, Monsieur. He left with Monsieur Athos and another cadet-in-training in the morning and he said he might be gone for long. He quickly dispatched the recruits and told them not to come back tonight," Monsieur Chabot, the stable master, informed Porthos.

"Did he say where he was going?" Porthos pursued.

"Non, monsieur. But he looked rather grave. Do you know, the way he gets when he is set on a mission?" Chabot whispered, as if it was the most insulting thing in the world to say.

…

"To my residence it is, then," Rochefort declared.

"No, wait. There is one place we should check first."

"Listen here, musketeer: I haven't slept for days now. We are all exhausted – " he gestured to Marianne " – and we need some rest before we can do anything. So, either you come willingly or I take the girl and go, because I am not leaving her alone with you."

Porthos was enraged but he knew he was right. If anything happened, he wasn't in the right condition to protect her. He had already failed her once. He glanced at Marianne who was now drooling onto Thunder's mane. Thankfully, the horse was too busy drinking from the fountain that he hadn't noticed. Porthos longed for a place he felt safe, a place he trusted. He needed his friends.

Instead of arguing with Rochefort, he gently said, "Please. It won't take long. Don't make me ask you again."

Rochefort regarded the colossus with a hint of respect. It must be important so as to prompt the musketeer to practically beg him for it.

"Fine, but not more than ten minutes."

…

He should have known. He had been here several times over the past couple years. And in those times, he had tried to break down the doors, to attack the musketeer to retrieve Buckingham and in the end, he succeeded in arresting the blond and haughty musketeer, while plotting to kill him in prison. Rochefort smiled at the memory. What a triumph that was, even if it was short-lived!

To Porthos' surprise, the door opened. For a long moment, he completely forgot the pain in his arm, the one in his heart and any and all pain he had been stewing in over the last few weeks. Seeing her there in front of him, her azure eyes glimmering in the daylight, the golden hair framing her face and her delicate eyebrows lifted up in surprise. There, _that_ was being home.

They stood in silence, as if scanning each other in silent communication. She lowered her eyebrows as she accustomed to the sight of him. She could read him so well. His eyes had so much in them and he didn't need to say anything to her. A tear tugged at the corner of her eyes and she jumped to his height and took him in his arms, pulling him inside and away from any bystanders. He teared up and embraced her back.

"AAAHHH!" he cried out. Their perfect reunion was unfortunately ruined by the excruciating reminder that resided in his arm. Before he could say anything, he poked his head out and motioned to his companions to come in, telling Aramis he will explain shortly, after she had made a face of utter surprise when she spied his two unlikely companions: the lost Comtesse and a disgruntled Rochefort.

Marianne rolled her eyes at this spectacle with Aramis. She was too tired and exhausted to succumb to any feelings of jealousy and resentment. That will have to wait.

"Are you coming?" she turned back to Rochefort.

"I would rather stay here and keep watch, just in case." Since Belle-Isle, his agenda for hunting down the musketeers had greatly diminished. Even _he _had to admit to himself: he had gotten soft with them. But still, he did not want to be seen consorting with them.

"Well, I'm famished," she declared, picking up her skirts and climbing up the stairs.

"He's a musketeer, they live on scraps. I doubt you'll find anything other than cheap wine," he sneered.

"Suit yourself."

…..

Aramis stood by the door to welcome the newcomer. As she walked in, the two women came face-to-face for a brief moment, in which Marianne scrutinized the musketeer from head to toe, her eyes finally resting on the gashes on her face - now having fainted thanks to Gerard's tincture.

"What happened to _you_?" she sneered at the blond musketeer and made her way inside without waiting for a response.

Taken aback by this rude greeting, Aramis simply closed the door and sighed, "Nice to see you too, Marianne," she murmured to herself. _I could ask you the same thing with that bandage on your head but I have a feeling you won't take to it kindly_.

Those familiar and endearing words that have come to define Porthos, that Aramis had been expecting after such a long journey, came just on time. But she was surprised when they were spoken with a feminine voice instead:

"Have you anything to eat? I'm starving!"

With that, the young woman headed into the kitchen, uninvited. Porthos blushed and scratched his neck with embarrassment at Marianne's comportment. As he followed his mistress into the kitchen, he turned back to Aramis, "Also, have you got any alcohol? I'm parched!"

The musketeer stood in her place, with her hands on her hips and an expression of disbelief, amusement and annoyance on her face. _Oh God… there were _two _of them now._

…..

Luckily, a cadet had brought her a basket of food filled with cheese, bread, fruit, pastries, cold meats and wine, enough to last her for a couple of days. So, there was plenty to share.

She sat one leg crossed over the other, her hands across her chest and silently watched as they greedily and without explicit permission dug into the contents of the basket. She was amused.

With his mouth full, Porthos said, "I'm sorry to have intruded like this, Aramis."

"Intruded how?" replied Marianne with a mouthful as well. She took a gulp from her wine glass to wash the food down, "The stable master told you she was suspended under house arrest. It's not like she's got anywhere to be or anything to do," Marianne said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Porthos stopped midway through his chewing and glared at the young redhead. He was both angry and embarrassed.

"You're intolerable!" he reproached his mistress.

"Well, she _does_ have a point. It's not like I can be on active duty after you smashed a wine bottle to my head, anyway," Aramis smirked.

Marianne's eyes widened and she turned to Porthos, "You did WHAT?!"

_Ahh, revenge is sweet!_ Thought Aramis to herself with a wry smile. After observing Gerard with his friend, she now knew just the right things to say to set her off. Coupled with her current mood, Porthos was due to receive some serious scolding. A couple of days at home and Aramis was out of her mind with boredom. These two provided the perfect entertainment. She waged with herself whether Marianne would slap him or punch him instead.

"Could you give us some privacy, for a few minutes?" he sternly said to Marianne. He was in no mood for an argument and he desperately needed to talk to Aramis. There was so much to be said and many apologies to be made.

He was expecting a tantrum from the disgusted way she looked at him and squinted her eyes. Instead, she unceremoniously and defiantly dropped a half-eaten piece of baguette on the table, made a face at him, rolled her eyes and left.

"Fine. I'll take a nap then. Is there somewhere to lie down around here?"

"Upstairs, Mademoiselle," Aramis replied.

When Marianne left the room, Aramis raised her eyebrows, "Well, _she's_ in a bad mood."

Porthos laughed nervously, "It's been a very long day," he paused, noticing the accusatory expression on his companion's face, "Also, it _maaaaay_ have something to do with the fact that I called her a whore. To her face," he admitted.

Aramis closed her eyes, sighed and nodded, "Of course you did." _Yes, prime entertainment!_

…

The young woman plopped down on the bed and glanced around. The furnishings were simple and small, to fit the size of the room: a bed, a dresser with a chair and an armoire. Compared to her own bedroom at home, that was furnished with a large comfortable bed, a large armoire and multiple decorations, there was nothing elaborate or extravagant about this place. There were barely any items out on display, except a small mirror on the dresser with a wooden comb and a small dark bottle of something.

Her heart leapt a little when she saw the bottle. It looked hauntingly familiar, like the ones they had at home. But then again, anyone could own a similar bottle, it's not like these things were unique. She stretched herself on the bed, closing her eyes.

How did she do it, this woman who calls herself Aramis? How did she manage to transform herself into this haughty and talented musketeer, all the while leading others to believe that she was a real man? Even if her very life was at risk, Marianne wouldn't be able to pull such a heroic – or insane – act. One thing was for sure, though: to keep a secret like that necessitated alienation from others. How lonely must that be! Not unlike her own existence…

Marianne's eyes suddenly flit wide-open as she rolled on the bed. _No, it can't be!_ She grabbed the pillows and crumbled the tidy sheets in her hands, bringing them to her nose. She turned them around, inside and out. It was unmistakable. It was _him_. It was definitely Gerard!

She leapt out of bed and picked up the bottle on the dresser. Her hand shook as she turned it around between her fingers and saw the label. It was his handwriting. But how? And when? His scent was still on the sheets which meant it was recent. Which also meant… oh God, what _did _it mean? Him and _Aramis_? But wasn't he…?

She sighed with the realization that she didn't really know who he was anymore. So, why mourn the departure of a stranger any longer? The truth was clear: he had left her and there was nothing more to it. He wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He wanted a new life. It was his right to do so.

It also was high time that she resigned herself to the fact that she was utterly and completely alone in the world, with no more friends nor family and barely any passing acquaintances. There was no point in resisting it any longer, no point in looking for friendship in others. It was simply not meant for her. Besides, her days were numbered and there was no point in wasting the remainder of her time in regrets. There was only the present now.

She undressed her bandage and applied the tincture to the gash in her right temple. _Good heavens_, if she had been struck at a slightly lower angle, it could have taken out her eye. What a lovely couple her and Rochefort would make then!

….

The two musketeers were speaking animatedly. Aramis was pacing across the room, her chin resting on one hand as the other supported it across her chest. Porthos was seated, clutching his injured arm and taking a few gulps from a wine bottle every now and then to numb the pain. They looked so natural together. There was an easy intimacy between them that transcended every definition.

"We must be leaving."

They were interrupted by an icy tone coming from the red-headed woman in the corner. Aramis' arm dropped as her eyes rested on the deep and bloody gash that the bandage had concealed. Her heart sank for a moment. Marianne wore her wound with a high head. Her stare was definite and her tone commanding. It was difficult to resist her. The two women stared at each other and it dawned on Aramis…The bed. The bottle. _Goddammit!_ She hadn't had the time to clean up since… all the evidence was there. And Marianne wasn't dumb – she could easily figure it out. And it looked like she did.

Porthos looked from one woman to the other with trepidation. They were conversing somehow, on a different level that was beyond his comprehension. But what did _he_ know about women, anyway?

He could see Aramis' chest move irregularly. She swallowed with more difficulty. There was certainly something he was missing. She even looked… guilty?

After what seemed like an eternity, Marianne broke away, grabbed an apple from the table and stole the bottle from a stupefied Porthos.

"I'll wait outside, don't be long or we _will _leave without you."

"What just happened?" Porthos spoke.

Aramis adopted the same embarrassed expression Porthos had before. "Long story! Let's talk on the way out."

…

Rochefort heard the door of Aramis' demure open. He barely glanced to show his displeasure when a round object came flying in his direction. He reflexively grabbed the apple and bit into it as he watched the young woman climb down the stairs. She held his gaze as she stepped down and walked towards him. There was something remarkably different and destabilizing about her just now. Something… powerful. Something new blazed within her eyes: a definite resolve. None of that clumsiness, petulance and innocence. It was as if she walked into that demure as a girl and now emerged as a woman.

"Tell me, Rochefort, was it just your masculine pride that prompted you to traipse across France after a runaway fiancée?" she crossed her arms over her chest.

He chuckled and took a swig from the bottle. Throwing the apple core over his shoulder he approached her. If his purpose was to intimidate her and regain some control, he was not succeeding. She stood up straight as tall as she could and they faced each other like two predators fighting over a prey.

"Believe you me: I would have been far happier to make the unfortunate discovery that you had perished. I had never pictured nor desired myself to be saddled with a petulant wife. Or any _wife_, for that matter. Alas, the Cardinal's orders were such that I marry you, Comtesse."

"Then it was undoubtedly his orders too to bring me back to this humiliating prospect?" He knew the motivation behind her question: she was someone with nothing to lose. Worse, she was someone who was prepared to find herself some enemies. A feeling he recognized all too well.

Rochefort regarded her with disdain before he turned away. He leaned against his horse and his features softened, "No, actually, he would have much preferred you disappeared into an abyss or succumbed naturally to your own death."

Marianne held her breath. Such wonderful news to receive. And trust Rochefort to be the one delivering it.

"Then why?"

"Well, my dear, you seem to be the key in resolving this blasted business of the Iron Mask and his allies."

_So, she was just a bait_. She nodded and went to the horse to mount it.

"Besides," he continued in a softer voice, "I'm a gentleman and I have a heart too. It _is_ unfortunate that you were caught in all of this."

Before either one could say anything, they were rejoined by the musketeers. Rochefort lifted her onto the horse, since Porthos was otherwise indisposed and their eyes crossed. She gave him a faint smile, to which he slightly inclined and she knew she just gained herself a new ally.


	37. Story Time I

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 37 Story Time I**

_Disclaimer_

_I have done my best to make sure that the historical context in this chapter is as accurate and true as possible, however, please feel free to point out any fallacies. _

_The names of the characters and the regions they presided over or owned are purely fictitious. If they correspond to any real names or regions, it is coincidental. _

_The Ordre de Lys-Blanc is also purely fictitious. Any implied involvement of any of the characters who existed in reality or in Dumas' novels is also fictious and of my own imagining._

_..._

The door violently burst open with a dramatic flare, leaving behind shards of wood that broke off where the lock had been fastened. Athos' sword was halfway out of its sheath when he saw the intruder, who barged in with a huff. But it wasn't an intruder; it was the owner of the manor, the Comte de Rochefort himself. Athos returned his sword to its place.

To everyone's astonishment, Aramis and Porthos walked in behind the Captain of the Red Guard. Gerard, who had stood up with his hand on his pistol, felt completely disarmed upon seeing the blue tint of his beloved musketeer's doublet. A sense of comfort enveloped his heart, but it was quickly replaced with apprehension as he spied Treville's menacing stare at the two musketeers: they had broken their orders.

But Treville seemed more perturbed by the presence of Porthos, thus leaving Aramis the discreteness to send a faint smile in the direction of Gerard, before she turned to her left to face the person she had truly longed to see: Athos. The latter, however, seemed baffled and unsure whether to fix his gaze on her or on Porthos. He thought he would be angry, or troubled, but he found himself relieved. They were all together again. They can face this new imminent threat together. No, Athos the Musketeer will _not_ die in a nameless tavern. He will die fighting side by side with Porthos and Aramis, come what may.

The room went abominably silent as the newcomers and those present registered the presence of each other, each one weighing their own thoughts carefully, wary of producing any small reaction that would set this field of dynamite into a full explosion.

Porthos stared back at his Capitaine defiantly for a long time. They both knew what his presence here meant. But it didn't matter any longer. The three musketeers were together again. He turned in the direction of Athos and nodded to his friend. To his surprise and relief, Athos reciprocated, but Porthos could still feel the iron glare of his Captain burning a whole in his forehead.

….

"What is going on! Let me in! Move away!" came a shrill cry from behind the two newcomers who stood blocking the door. Gerard stiffened. _That voice!_

She shoved Porthos and Aramis aside, penetrating the room with as much of a theatrical comportment as its owner.

It was akin to a painting, where each subject stood frozen in place, facing someone or another as if time was stopped. Marianne was the only disruptor but she, too, joined in the scene when she perceived her old friend by the bed of the invalid.

"Marianne…" he whispered. He was about to break the perfect scene and jump towards her. He was desperate to welcome her in his arms, to lift her up and twirl her like he had done so many times. He was desperate to go home, and she was it. _Home_. He wanted to comfort her, to know everything, to throw himself at her feet and ask her to forgive him, to explain everything, to reunite, to… Her stare stopped him short. It was neither angry nor characteristically cold. It was simply void. As she turned around to disrupt the scene with her movement once more, he spied the bloody wound on her head. She had been on her own, without him. She had had experiences without him. In that process, they had become strangers to each other.

Meanwhile, Rochefort had removed himself to a far corner of the room, where he quietly – and with great amusement – observed this peculiar scene with its real-life actors and their intriguing dynamics.

"Monsieur Lemay!" Marianne exclaimed and plopped down on the bed, taking the old man's hand in hers, "You're alive, thank God!"

….

Of the main group, Athos was the first to break away from his position. Marianne conversed animatedly with Monsieur Lemay. Whether she intended for Gerard to hear the account of her journey was unclear, but he was in close vicinity to listen anyway. Although he did not dare interrupt or ask any of the burning questions he longed to ask.

Porthos looked from Gerard to Aramis and nudged her playfully, to which she responded with a "Stop it!" glare, crossed her arms on her chest and faced the wall.

Athos, Rochefort and Treville convened in the corner, giving each other updates and questioning one another over the recent events, in an attempt to bring together the pieces of this difficult puzzle that was the Iron Mask and his plans.

When they had finished, Treville turned back to ask Monsieur Lemay to begin relaying the story he had promised them before they were interrupted by the newcomers.

In the meantime, Athos whispered to Rochefort, "It was rather peculiar that M. Lemay had been left with no appropriate medical attention."

Rochefort stiffened, "Cardinal's orders," he simply replied. _So, the Captain was right. Lemay knew something and the Cardinal wanted his death to look natural,_ Athos thought to himself.

"And yet, you somehow kept him alive long enough for us to find him and then you placed a lousy guard at the door and gave orders to your butler not to alert the rest of your regiment should we come knocking on your door."

Rochefort remained silent and turned away. Athos smiled, "I suppose we're all becoming adept in this new business of breaking orders." To which Rochefort threw him a side glance before looking away, confirming his complicity. "Anyway," continued Athos, "There really was no need to break the door. I would have gladly opened it if you announced yourself."

"Well, you know how I like to make an entrance," jested Rochefort.

"Mmm, it's _your_ door, in the end." He moved back to where he was, right next to Aramis. Right where he belonged.

….

Lemay was about to begin his recollection when he stopped short on perceiving the Comte de Rochefort in the corner. _The right-hand of the Cardinal himself._ Sensing his hesitation, the group collectively turned their heads, tracing Lemay's line of sight towards the culprit in the corner. Then, someone said:

"We can trust him."

The group was further astonished to discover that it was not some_one_ who had spoken. Rather, it was spoken unanimously by two people on opposite corners of the room. Athos and Marianne exchanged a regard of surprise at this unintended synchronization. It seemed they had both arrived to the same conclusion through their own separate ways.

Lemay resigned himself. There was not much time to lose anyway, "Very well, children, listen carefully…"

…

"I needn't tell you all the sordid details of that terrible day… St Bartholomew's Day many years ago… Nor do I need to describe the events and plots that led to it. But after that shameful day, we decided to form a union of some sorts. In public, some of us were known as _les politiques_. But in anticipation that the tides may turn against us, we created a network in secret.

We called ourselves the Ordre de Lys Blanc. White to symbolize purity and peace. We came from all parts of France. We were anyone and everyone: inventors, intellectuals, poets, artists, philosophers, farmers, even soldiers. We were nobility and we were commoners. We were men and women. But most importantly, we were Catholic and Protestant. Our mission and desire were to foster peace, harmony and to advance intellectual and economic pursuits – essentially any pursuits that sought to lift us out of our differences and into advancement and progress. We wanted to transcend, to create a place and a society that was just and tolerant. An utterly utopian and naïve vision, you might argue. But we preserved nonetheless.

"We were lucky in that our values were shared by the King of Navarre himself, the Tolerant King Henry, who was to become Henry IV, King of France and Navarre. He stood by us and we stood by him. In public and in secret, we all worked together for the same vision: a unified and prosperous France."

Athos observed his comrades. Each of them sitting at the edge of their seat, intently engrossed by this novel revelation of a history they had never known. Even Rochefort, who had been reclined against the wall, was now upright and attentive. The only person who seemed unaffected was Capitaine de Treville.

…

"Alas, there were people who were keen to throw over the monarchy for their own personal gain .Their strategy left quite the breeding ground for certain renegades and those with anti-monarchic ideas began to prosper and organize themselves. In many ways, they were like us. They worked in public, under the direction of the Guises. But they also worked in private – and that, my friends, is how the band of the Iron Mask began to take hold. There was no "Iron Mask", per se at the time. But it seemed that inevitably, the icon became flesh-and-blood.

"Just like us, they kept quiet for many years, but at one point, something stirred that prompted them to commit the atrocious act of kidnapping Prince Philippe.

"I had often had my theories about when and how they found out about him in the first place. This letter from Paul-Francois de Dandurand confirms everything for me.

"Now that I had given you an image of the France we were in, I can begin to describe the actors in this tragic play."

….

"As in many tales of our time and those before - and probably after us - , this is a tale of love - first and foremost. It begins with a woman.

"She was the daughter of the Marquis d'Aren*, a descendant from the Bourbon-Conde line two times removed, thus making him a distant cousin to Henry IV."

Monsieur Lemay paused and sighed deeply. He closed his eyes and smiled, as if he was no longer in the room, but somewhere else. Somewhere long gone…

In a softer voice he continued:

"She was the most beautiful and highly regarded young woman in Bearn. There was no one around that hadn't heard of her bewitching beauty. She had eyes as blue as an infant night sky right after dusk. They were so deep and so rich in shades of blue, you could get lost in them and lose your soul along with it.

"She had unusual hair, too. It was a dark mahogany, with streaks of aubergine in it, that complemented her eyes, occasionally giving them a violet tinge. When you met her, it was the most difficult thing in the world to take your eyes off of her. She was the perfect marriage between Aphrodite and Medusa. Yet, in spirit, she was every bit like Athena herself.

"Many pitied the Marquis when his young wife died leaving him with two very young daughters. Many urged him to remarry, but he solemnly refused, choosing instead to pour all his energy on his daughters, the eldest in particular.

"The young heiress grew to become a formidable woman. She was every bit beautiful as she was intelligent. She took to pursuits which were more suited to her male counterparts as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. She was skilled with the sword and the finest rider and huntress there ever was in Bearn and the Kingdom of Navarre. The pride and prize of her father. The son he never had, some would say.

"Her skill became so renowned, there were no hunting parties that took place without her. Thanks to her father, she had also grown up with a mind that was sharp and politically oriented. She had ideas and strategies that baffled even the most experienced of us. And she debated them with such conviction, too. Oh, she lay many men to shame! Naturally, it wasn't long before she was invited to the Court of Navarre, which greatly honored her father. She was truly a Princess in her own right. An extraordinary woman!"

Monsieur Lemay chuckled softly at the memory. However, his face darkened not soon after.

"Although some aspects of her demeanour were already part of her character, some were further exacerbated. For to be amongst the company of men constantly and to earn their respect, a woman had to be a certain way.

"She had become known for her cold and detached intellect. Her beauty was icy, as was her demeanour. She was reserved, calculating, strategic and very sharp. She was also a devout reformist, which made her more stern and self-preserving, given the horrors her people had to endure. As such, she was a difficult woman, and those who had ambitions to ally themselves to her high-born family by marriage, were quickly discouraged or turned away.

"There remained, however, a few men with courage. Yet, those who did have the misfortune of falling in love with this otherworldly creature, would meet a tragic Fate. And such was the case with the young Pierre de Rameau, or as you all now simply call him 'Rameau'."

…

"But, Monsieur Lemay?" it was Marianne, who interrupted.

"Yes, my child?"

"Who _was_ this woman?" Marianne asked in her usual petulant and impatient way.

"Oh, did I not mention it before?"

"NO!" everyone cried, unanimously.

Monsieur Lemay chuckled.

"Why, it was Katherine d'Aren, of the Bourbon-Conde House, the Marquise d'Aren and, afterwards, by marriage, the Comtesse de Dandurand."

Then, turning to Marianne, he said gravely, "Your mother."

*Aren is a small region in the Bearnaise part of France, close to Pau. I don't know if it was ever a county or a marquisette.


	38. Story Time II (Philippe)

**Chapter 37 : Storytime II**

It was very late into the night when he felt a gentle hand shaking him awake.

"Your Highness," the man whispered.

"What is it, Armand?" the Prince replied thickly, annoyed that his sleep was being unduly disturbed.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but it is urgent."

Startled, Philippe rose himself to a seated position.

"Did something happen to His Majesty?"

"No, Your Highness, nothing like that. But Capitaine de Treville is here with the three Musketeers."

"What, Treville? At this hour?!" the Prince replied incredulously.

"Oui, Monsieur. It's about the Dandurand girl."

At the mention of the Comtesse de Dandurand, Philippe jumped out of bed and straight into the robe that his valet was holding up for him.

…

As he walked towards his private library, his heart was racing. He had gotten so attached to that mysterious young woman throughout the convention. It was such a brief time but her presence had stirred something in him. It made him painfully nostalgic to a different time, to a long-gone past and to a person who had become only a memory.

When he moved to the Louvre, Philippe had requested several tutors but he had never felt a sense of real connection to any of them. Yet with Marianne, he could never shake that odd feeling of familiarity. Her presence somehow evoked Francois and he could never understand why. Before they had left the convention, Philippe had requested that the Comtesse de Dandurand become his official companion. Louis, finally happy to see his brother emerge from his sombreness and especially desiring the company of a woman, wholeheartedly agreed.

"Although, Philippe, I daresay, your choice is peculiar. There are many more women out there with grander titles and greater beauty," Louis had teased his brother.

Philippe had smiled and said, "While that may be, there is something special about this one."

_A secret, a longing, a connection… _

Aside from his burning desire to dig more into this young lady's mysterious past and find out what it was about her that troubled him, he saw in her a true companion. They were similar, her and him. They were both new and uninitiated to the world. They were both locked up and thrown away in their respective towers for the majority of their lives.

But no more.

Philippe had plans for them. They would spend their time in intellectual pursuits, in reading and in making discoveries. He would host salons and become a patron of philosophers and artists. They would travel together, explore different sceneries, sampling the different cultures in Europe. Why not go to the colonies, even! She would become his advisor, his mentor and he would become her patron.

Of course, they would never travel alone. He could still see her in his mind's eye with her youthfulness radiance, blushing and giggling at everything the musketeer Porthos said. When she wasn't looking, or when she was walking a few steps in front of them, he could see the musketeer sheepishly grinning with a lovestruck look on his face as he watched her from behind. He had been drunk on her. It brought Philippe so much joy to see them together, to witness the blossoming of love. Quite a stark contrast to what his reality had been his whole life.

But there was still another layer to this complex plot that the young Prince was hatching (he had become accustomed to hatching plots at this point): the Comtesse had a valet who trailed around after her everywhere she went and Philippe was banking on his presence.

Being at court, Philippe was introduced to all kinds of women, but he never took much of a liking to the pursuit of the opposite sex. He hadn't taken a liking to the pursuit of sex at all, in fact. So much had happened in his life that it was difficult for him to access that space in his mind.

But something changed that night at the tavern. As soon as he saw him, something in his body stirred. Since then, the memory of Marianne's valet haunted his dreams and dominated his fantasies. He could think of nothing else. For the first time in his life, Philippe understood the meaning of being lovesick.

His plans were thus crafted to perfection. While his companion would take the musketeer to her bed at night, _he_ would take her valet.

Yes, perfection!

_Except…_

Well, except that it all went downhill a day later.

Louis had burst into his room that morning and announced that the Comtesse de Dandurand was engaged to the Comte de Rochefort. He was enraged, pacing up and down the room. _How could she do that to his brother? Women were deceitful creatures, never to be trusted! To think that she would choose Rochefort, _Rochefort_, over the Prince of France! What nonsense! Philippe could have any woman he desired, there were so many others with grander titles and greater beauty…_

"Please, Louis, that's enough," Philippe had stopped him before his brother launched into more insults in the direction of the Comtesse.

Something was not right. She loved Porthos. He had seen it with his own eyes. _No doubt this was Richelieu's doing…_

And what Richelieu wants, Richelieu gets.

Philippe felt queasy at the thought of Marianne being married off to Rochefort. He needed to find out what Richelieu had planned and hatch his own to overthrow it. He needed to save his friend.

Yet before he could come up with anything, things took a turn to the worse. Much, much worse.

His worst nightmare had materialized: the Iron Mask was back at large…

The disgust he had felt at the idea of his friend's fate being manipulated by Richelieu into marrying Rochefort was then replaced by sheer horror. Richelieu was manageable. The Iron Mask was not. He had kidnapped the Comte de Dandurand and attempted to kidnap Marianne. She had run away, but who knew where she was or what could have happened. He could have gotten to her by now and imprisoned her.

The thought made Philippe sick. If anyone knew what it was like to be a victim of the Iron Mask, it was him. His mind conjured up all sorts of horrific images concerning the fate of his friend.

He had thus frantically ordered search parties and commanded Treville to update him on any progress immediately, no matter what.

In the meantime, he had set out to do some investigations himself and he knew exactly where to start.

….

The Cardinal hadn't been surprised when his servant announced that His Highness, Prince Philippe, had come to see him.

An irate Louis-lookalike stepped into the room.

Richelieu hadn't liked the idea of Philippe in the first place. To him, Philippe's presence was dangerous. It was a threat to France's stability and prosperity. Philippe's favor with his brother also irritated him. Anne was enough as it is and getting rid of _her _was an undertaking that continued to fail despite his best efforts.

"Don't worry, Your Highness. Both my Guards and the musketeers are actively searching for the Iron Mask. You are perfectly safe," Richelieu began, attempting to inject some false security.

"You know that's not why I'm here," Philippe retorted.

"Oh?"

"You seem quite calm about the fact that the Iron Mask had penetrated your residence for the _second _time, kidnapped your friend and attempted to take your lieutenant's _fiancée_."

The Cardinal turned around to face the window.

"Paul-Francois de Dandurand knew that he was playing a dangerous game," he replied calmly, rubbing his goatee.

"Why did you invite Pierre de Rameau to your convention, in the first place, while fully knowing the rumours about his involvement with the Iron Mask?"

"You have done your homework, I see."

"Your staff prove to be very knowledgeable under stress."

Richelieu chuckled wryly, "Who would have thought the lost Prince had a panache for spies and politics!"

"Enough pleasantries! Lives are at stake, have you no compassion?" Philippe slammed his fist onto the Cardinal's bureau.

The Cardinal turned around and regarded the Prince with haughtiness.

"Compassion has no place in this line of work, Your Highness."

Before he could continue, Philippe was at his throat, holding him up from his collar.

"Tell me, did you orchestrate this so you could get rid of me again? Bring us to your residence, which was already set up to switch me and Louis, then have me killed and blame the Iron Mask for my death?"

The two men stared at each other in ire, before Richelieu broke away, closing his eyes and exhaling profoundly.

He then softly said:

"No, believe it or not. I was trying to save your life once and for all."

Philippe held Richelieu for a moment or two before he released him from his grip.

"Explain yourself, Richelieu. I won't ask you again," Philippe calmly said, turning away.

….

The events of the Iron Mask and his elaborate plot had shaken Richelieu to the core. After his release from the Chatelet, he had spent the next few months determined to erase traces of all and any organized societies that lived in the shadows. In other words, he intended to restore order.

He had sent his spies far and wide and had written to those whose loyalty he could count on. One of those was Paul-Francois de Dandurand. A brilliant inventor and a fellow alumnus from the College of Navarre where Richelieu had received some of his education. He knew that the inventor was a recluse.

Richelieu had used his influence on his friend in the past to acquire certain inventions that would place France at the forefront of technological and militaristic advancement.

So, it was with great surprise that he had received a letter from the inventor, in which he expressed his desire for a private audience with the Cardinal, as he had pertinent information regarding two secret societies that lived and thrived within the folds of the country. In exchange for the information, he solicited protection for his only living relative – his niece.

The two men had met when the Cardinal invited the inventor to the King's ball towards summer's end. It was the perfect opportunity to show his valued informant that he intended to keep his part of the bargain by means of producing a match between the niece and his lieutenant.

Paul-Francois was a man who was haunted by paranoia, so that gesture on the Cardinal's part worked to ensure his trust.

As such, the neurotic inventor, plagued by anxiety for the life of his niece, revealed all kinds of information to the Cardinal.

…

The Ordre de Lys-Blanc was nothing new to the Cardinal. He had long suspected that his friend was initiated within them, as were many philosophers and artists, and his suspicions were finally affirmed. What surprised the Cardinal was the knowledge that Paul-Francois de Dandurand had, in fact, known about the existence of Prince Philippe from birth.

King Henry IV, fearing renewed tension in France if he were to present twin sons, sought to hide one of them from the public eye. He had loved them both, but keeping them both meant risking another civil war and spilling more blood, so he had to make a difficult choice.

And so, with permission from him, the Ordre had taken Philippe into their care. The choice between Philippe and Louis had been by hazard, really. It could have just as much been Louis, but luck would have it otherwise.

There was, however, another motive: although he declared himself publicly Catholic, the King of France and Navarre had not forsaken his Reformed ways in his heart. He had thus wished for his hidden son to be raised in the Protestant faith. In that regard, he had chosen Philippe to be closer to him in his heart.

After the assassination of Henry IV, the rise of Marie di Medici to regency caused some turmoil within the Ordre. She had never liked the idea of them nor had they liked the idea of her. Marie had no interest in Philippe. She had wanted the throne to herself and that was her primary focus. However, for her plans to succeed, those who knew about Philippe needed to be eliminated.

And they were. One by one.

Except by that point, Paul-Francois had completely severed his ties to the Ordre, so he fled the attention of Marie's assassins. Instead, his attentions had shifted somewhere else, to another organization, a darker one.

"Why?" the Cardinal had asked, distastefully, as the man in front of him transformed from being a friend to a traitor within a matter of seconds after this revelation.

The answer, however, was simple. It was the same reason that drove many men to act recklessly: it was for a woman. For love and revenge.

He had revealed Philippe's secret to his fiancée and the love of his life: Rosalie de Rameau.

Shortly after, she was assassinated. It was the Ordre who had taken her life, so he left them and joined her brother, Pierre de Rameau, in his quest to triumph against the Ordre.

This drastic change in alliances had caused a tremendous disturbance between Paul-Francois and his brother, Charles. Like his brother, Charles de Dandurand was a brilliant inventor. He was also a man of charisma, who had become a sensation at the Court of Navarre after marrying the Protestant Katherine d'Aren. The couple were dedicated to the Ordre and they were dedicated to their King.

Paul-Francois' secret activities with the Iron Mask's group became troubling for them both. The two brothers quarrelled constantly and Charles threatened to betray his own brother to the King if he did not cease his activities with them.

The quarrels went on and they became public. Charles was the type of man to drink. He was loud and blunt when he was drunk. Once or twice, he almost revealed his brother's secret to others. It became time to eliminate him.

Naturally, Paul-Francois would never agree, but Rameau had tolerated this spectacle long enough. He had hated Charles for other reasons too: he stole the woman he was once engaged to. He had stolen the love of his life from him, he had stolen Katherine.

So, Charles was eliminated.

To Rameau's misery, his men, who had been responsible for Charles' death, did not take into account the fact that his wife had been with him on that day. In his wild grief, Rameau killed his own men for this miscalculation.

As for Paul-Francois, he fell into his own abyss. The two men parted ways never to speak again until six years later when Rameau wrote to him a note saying, "We have Philippe, thank you for the information. You are welcome amongst us any time."

It had been an invitation that Paul-Francois de Dandurand refused. After that, he closed his doors and shut himself off from the world.

The next few years passed by peacefully. The inventor had isolated himself successfully. He no longer received visitors. He barely responded to letters. He poured himself entirely into his work and into educating his niece, whom he kept busy at home.

But then, almost two years ago, a woman had come knocking on his door. She had been irresistible, but Paul-Francois was too jaded with life to be concerned with games of seduction. Yet as soon as she requested the invention, he knew right away. It was Rameau. It was the Iron Mask. They were going to execute their plan finally, to place Philippe on the throne and to control everything.

At that point he realized that he had been the only man who could stop them. But before he could even think of anything or refuse her request, the woman batted her emeraled-green eyes at him and innocently said, "I was told you have a niece, _non_?"

_Check mate. _

He couldn't sacrifice Marianne's life. To hell with France and to hell with the monarchy. He had caused the death of all those whom he loved. She was all he had left.

If he did what they asked, surely, they would leave him alone after that. So, he had set to work on the machine.

He had delivered and gave them what they wanted. Yet before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they began requesting more. He couldn't refuse. By this time, Maxim de Rameau had somehow gained the favor of his niece. He gained more than her favor, in fact. He chose to blind himself to it but he knew that Maxim did not treat her well. He saw the marks on his niece. Yet one false move on his part and Maxim could finish her.

How many times had the young de Villebois stormed into his study, his temper flying like a dragon? He, whose temperament was as calm and as serene as a babbling brook on a dewy spring morning.

"How could you let her see him? How could you possibly stand for this? You have no compassion, no ounce of love in your bones!" he had yelled at the top of his lungs.

"You'll be there to protect her," was his only reply. His hands were tied.

…..

After the fall of the Iron Mask in Belle-Isle, the Comte de Dandurand could finally breathe some relief. When the Cardinal's letter came, he did not hesitate. Rameau and his organization had suffered a blow and this was probably the only chance he would get. He will secure Marianne first, marry her off to a high-ranking officer under the Cardinal's command and then work closely with the Cardinal to bring down Rameau once and for all.

The plot was simple: orchestrate a convention as an opportunity to invite the Comte de Rameau. With Paul-Francois' help, Richelieu had in possession all the information he could possibly need to convict and execute Rameau. He only needed proof, to catch him in action. They then publicly announced to the attendees that the Comte de Dandurand had won the bid of building a new and advanced weapon for France. This was the bait: Rameau would certainly want to get his hands on this weapon before anyone else.

He will thus attempt to kidnap the Comte de Dandurand to secure it for himself. To facilitate this, Richelieu had to loosen security around his residence to give the impression that it was unguarded. Yet when the time came, the Red Guard would come to the Comte's aid and rescue him, while arresting Rameau at the same time. In the meantime, the girl would be secured with Rochefort, who was always too eager to please his superior.

Except that, Richelieu had no intention of rescuing anyone. In his eyes, Paul-Francois de Dandurand had become a traitor. He also knew too much. He needed to get rid of him. His assistant will certainly be killed by Rameau and his men, so that was another advantage. In the end, Richelieu instructed his Guard to follow Rameau to his hiding place, storm it and leave no one alive.

But the Cardinal, once again, was outwitted by the Iron Mask. Not once did Richelieu suspect that he would see the Iron Mask himself ever again. At his residence no less! _Good heavens_!

He was also outwitted by the inventor. Paul-Francois knew that he would lose the Cardinal's favor once he confessed his affiliation with Rameau. But that didn't matter. As long as Marianne was secure, nothing else mattered. No one else did. Not even Gerard, despite his affection for the boy.

At the convention, he had been pleased to see his old friend, Monsieur Lemay. He alerted Lemay instantly to the plot and sent out a distress plea throughout the Ordre. Although their activities had dwindled over the last few years, some members remained active and alert.

To the inventor's relief and Richelieu's dismay, his niece was saved.

His guards having been killed by the Iron Mask, there was no way for Richelieu to trace Rameau and the Iron Mask to their hiding place. He had sent search parties to Rameau's residence and to the manor that belonged to the infamous Manson but there was nothing and no one.

This was a dangerous place to be in: the Iron Mask was a dangerous criminal and he was an immediate threat to the King, thus putting Richelieu under more pressure. Lemay knew too much so he instructed Rochefort to let him die naturally. As for the girl and the inventor's assistant? He ordered Rochefort to search France high and wide for them. They were now the only link he had to the Iron Mask.

…..

Philippe he knew he had to find Marianne before either Richelieu or the Iron Mask did. For she, too, held the key to unlocking the secret to_ his_ past.

"Treville, what news?" he demanded as he stepped into the room.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness," Treville bowed and stepped aside, revealing a young woman with dark auburn hair and a muddy dress.

Philippe's heart almost stopped. He looked around the room, at the Captain, at Marianne, at the three musketeers, his eyes finally resting on the young man to the back of the room: Marianne's valet. His ruggedness and messy appearance made him look all the more appealing. Yet, as he inspected them all one by one, he realized that every single one of them was battered and bruised in one way or another.


	39. Through Philippe's Eyes

_Dear Readers,_

_Just a quick note to say thank you so much for sticking with this story until now! It's taken me a while to get back into it so excuse the subpar writing and flow for this and upcoming chapter or two. The beginning of writing is always exciting but the middle gets tough. It's sort of the "make it or break it" part for both the writer and story. Your reviews and encouragements keep me going so thank you. Also, now with this enforced quarantine, I plan on writing a lot more! I hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave feedback at any time during the story. Keep well! XOXO_

**L'amante de Porthos**

**Chapter 39: Through Philippe's Eyes**

Prince Philippe listened absent-mindedly as the Captain of the Musketeers relayed the details of the events that had led up to this moment. Aside from the Comtesse's little misadventure, the Prince knew all the details from the Cardinal. Lemay's account only served to confirm it.

Philippe's gaze wandered around the room, landing first on the young woman standing at an arm's length opposite him. Marianne had fixed a random point in space to stare at. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress muddied and unflattering and she sported a wound on her head that left traces of blood on the side of her face. She looked older and weathered. He didn't know whether to pity her, or to be glad to see her well and alive, or whether he had wanted to see her at all. The fact that she was related to a man who had ruined his life gave him mixed feelings.

Having decided that this was not the time to consider those feelings, he turned to the man whom he had been looking forward to seeing all along. Gerard de Villebois had his arms crossed over his chest and was leaning back against the far wall, his eyes closed. His untidy appearance made him look all the more rugged, increasing his attraction by folds. All the poor Prince could think about was walking over decidedly to him, pulling his arms away from his chest and pressing himself onto him, joining their lips in a fiery embrace. He shook his head to chase away the fantasies. _Not the time, Philippe, not the time!_

_Look elsewhere!_ _Ah yes, Aramis!_ His special warrior guardian. Her discrete smiles usually imbued him with strength and hope. But his favorite musketeer's aura was rather lacking and uninspiring tonight. She looked tired and weary. Her face looked sallow and blemished from recent scars. Yet, he persisted, searching for some acknowledgment. Alas, it seemed that she only had eyes for one person: the musketeer Athos.

The Prince sniggered to himself internally. Of course. How could he not have seen it before? Athos was a man whose reputation preceded him. He radiated charisma. The quiet and mysterious kind of charisma. The kind that did not necessitate a loud declaration or the rambunctious exhibition of one's self through humour or entertaining anecdotes. No, those kinds of displays were well fitting for a man like Porthos, but certainly not Athos.

Philippe scrutinized the tall dark musketeer. Yes, he could see exactly what his femme-musketeer saw in him. His features emanated with nobility and intellect. His body was agile, strong, built and fit in all the right places. Philippe leaned his head to the side, taking in a side view of Athos' rear. He nodded discretely and approvingly to himself before allowing his eyes to dart over the area in between the musketeer's muscular legs. _Yes, Athos was a man whose reputation preceded him._

A wry smile flashed over the Prince at the thought of his splendid warrior receiving her well-deserved pleasure in bed by that dashing man.

But the musketeer Athos was more just an attractive presence. He possessed an unusually high intelligence and a natural sense of leadership.

As he watched him now, listening intently to his Captain's account, at the ready to interject or correct, Philippe wondered why Athos had not been promoted to Captain of the Musketeers already. When _he_ was King for a short time, he had hoped that Athos would be the one to accept the badge of the Captain.

For in many ways, Athos reminded Philippe of Francois, so it was only natural that he would be the object of Aramis' affections. But Philippe worried whether Athos would faithfully return his musketeer's love. After all, Athos' reputation _did_ precede him. And in comparison, Francois was a man of honor who had led a limited and quiet life. He was saintly. Athos, on the other hand, was a man of the world; a man with a long trail of mistresses; a man with a mysterious past and who undoubtedly carried some deep scars within him.

Despite his admiration of him, he was also slightly intimidated by the musketeer.

Their eyes met at one point, causing Philippe to look away hastily.

A thought flashed into his mind: _Porthos!_

How_ is_ the dear chap? He thought to himself as he searched the room for the large musketeer.

He smiled, thinking of Porthos. What delightful company he was! Always funny, chatty and charming. He possessed a joie-de-vivre that was radiant and worthy of envy. He was the kind of person that everyone wished they could be friends with. Porthos had seated himself on an armchair, clutching a hand that Philippe could tell was swollen. It looked awfully painful. It also looked like the grand musketeer's face was frozen in a perpetual wince. He did not smile, and barely moved. If anything, his presence felt… smaller.

What saddened the young Prince, though, was the absence of any kind of affection or warmth between the musketeer and his friend, the Comtesse. Neither one of them had even exchanged a glance with the other. They positioned themselves as far away from each other as they could, and the air between them felt stale, tense, worn out and dispassionate.

"…your highness?"

Treville's voice pulled Philippe back into reality. It was now his turn to speak, to let them know what he himself had found out and to piece the elements of the puzzle together.

…

Marianne practically collapsed on an armchair, as Philippe finished relaying his encounter with Cardinal Richelieu. While the young Prince had been anxious and worried about his friend, the Cardinal's revelation did put a damper on his excitement to see her. He thus found himself strangely cold towards her this evening, even though he had long fantasized of a happy and warm reunion.

Until now, he had been regarding her with caution and apprehension. Young Philippe had the tendency to see the best in people, even if they were the most corrupt. Some would say this was a virtue, but it was a disadvantage that made the Prince all-too trusting to his own detriment.

He had taken an instant liking to the Comtesse de Dandurand. She had become his friend and his tutor almost immediately.

_Just like Milady_, a part of him whispered, injecting evil doubts. He clenched his fists tightly. The sheer memory of Milady made him sick.

Yet in another corner of his soul, he knew that any anger or resentment he had towards the young Comtesse was false. He began to feel somewhat guilty.

He had stood in front of this anxious crowd, unveiling to them one of the biggest plots in France and with it, unfolding the web of lies that had securely formed the life of the Comtesse de Dandurand. He did so with hardly any pause or emotion and with complete detachment. In his bitterness, that dark part of himself wanted so desperately to blame someone for all his misfortunes. In a way, he had wanted to hurt her.

It was only when he finished and gazed at the young woman in front of him that he realized _she_ was not his enemy. _She_ was not responsible for the tragedy that was his life. For his imprisonment by the Iron Mask, for the plot that sought to kill his brother and mostly – the thing that tore him to pieces – Francois's untimely death.

She was overcome, he could tell. Lemay hadn't confirmed anything about the plot that concerned Philippe. He had had doubts, Treville said, but he never knew the truth.

Now it was Marianne who had to face it: that her uncle, the man she had trusted her whole life, was at the very heart of a grave and deadly plot. That she had assisted him in making the machine that was responsible for switching the twins. That she had also assisted him in making other inventions to aid the Iron Mask in his quest. He had used and manipulated her. He had educated her for his own purposes, not to give her satisfaction and purpose.

He had kept her in obscurity her whole life, about who she was, about her parents and the true circumstances of their death, while she had thought it was because the grief was too much to bear. Then, he had gambled with her life, and with Gerard's. And this whole time, he had been aware of the abuse Maxim inflicted on her and done nothing about it. He had been a coward. A liar. A traitor. A murderer.

How must she _feel_? Oh, but Philippe knew only too well. The lies, the plots, the Machiavellian underworkings of it all. The realization that she was someone else this whole time - that she could have _been _someone else. Someone different, happier, freer, more at peace.

And with all of that would come the ultimate comprehension of a simple yet disheartening fact: just like Philippe had been, Marianne was - as the Cardinal had so eloquently put it - "collateral damage."

A pawn in a game. Nothing more.

…..

A loud bang sounded in the room, startling everyone, as the big and powerful fist of the musketeer Porthos hit a large wooden table.

While the Prince had intended to comfort his friend, he immediately retreated on realizing that the space around her can only be occupied by one person. And it just happened that that one person was much grander than the average.

He watched as this god-like human rose from his seat, as if imbued with a newfound energy that rendered him larger-than-life figure.

He walked over to where Marianne had been sitting, undid his cloak and placed it gently around her. He then knelt in front of her, took her hand in his and with the other, seemingly injured hand, he stroked her face gently.

Philippe held his breath, his heart melting from the sheer tenderness of the moment he was witnessing.

The young musketeer lifted her chin up. She was at the edge of a cliff. Like she was holding her composure by a thin thread, struggling hard not to shout hysterically, not to bolt and run, not to take her revenge on those who wronged her. Much as _he_ had felt once upon a time, when Milady first unveiled the truth to him.

Her eyes, which had glazed over, as if in limbo between tears, shock and the countless other emotions she was experiencing, seemed to have come alive once more as they met the musketeer's. She squeezed his hand shakily and he squeezed hers back tighter.

"No one will menace you while I am alive," he vowed to her. "And the Iron Mask and his band of miscreants will pay for everything they've done, I promise you."

…..

Porthos stood up and turned to his Captain with a determined and confident attitude.

"Captain," he addressed him, "I know I disobeyed your orders and came back to Paris without your permission. I accept that my punishment for this will be dismissal from the musketeers but just for this one ti-"

"YOU WHAT!" cried Athos and Aramis in unison.

"Captain, you _cannot_ dismiss Porthos from the regiment!" reproached Athos.

"If he goes, I'll go," Aramis put in.

Porthos smiled inwardly, profoundly touched by the unconditional loyalty of his two best friends. Even after everything.

Capitaine de Treville took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if praying for an invisible God. The last thing he needed right now was his three musketeers teaming up against him and threatening him with disobedience. Hadn't he learned anything about his men from d'Artagnan's arrival and the story of the broken swords?!

He put up his palm to silence them before turning to Porthos.

"What were you going to say?"

Porthos, who had lost a bit of his confidence in front of his Captain replied meekly, "Only that, were you to dismiss me, then let this be my last mission at least. Then, I will leave of my own accord."

"Porthos…" Aramis pleaded.

"Consider what you're saying," Athos cautioned.

Treville put his hand up again. _Well, well, well_, he thought to himself. It appears that some distance has done the trick to soften the edges between his musketeers. However, there was still more repairing to be done. _Let this be a test to their friendship then, once and for all._

The Captain approached his musketeer such that his nose was almost touching the musketeer's large chest. Even though Porthos stood a foot taller than the Captain and weighed a great deal more, the giant still showed reverence to his superior as his superior showed dominance over him.

"Very well, I accept your condition."

….

"In any case," continued the Captain, "You're right. Rameau and the Iron Mask need to be eliminated. As soon as possible," Treville declared.

"And how do you propose to do that, Captain?" Philippe asked. "We don't even know where they are."

Treville went silent, as he contemplated the question. Indeed. If Richelieu – and even Rochefort himself – has confirmed that there were no signs in either Manson's house nor Rameau's, then they could be anywhere in France. They could go back and start the search from the Beaugrand estate, where the Iron Mask was last seen, but it was a longshot. They would have been far gone by now.

"We draw them out instead," it was Athos who spoke.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"If Paul-Francois de Dandurand was sufficient for their purposes, they would not have made another appearance until they had a weapon and were ready to strike. Clearly, they were missing something. And I believe we can provide that."

Philippe regarded him skeptically, "and what is it exactly that they are missing?"

Athos gestured towards Marianne, a mischievous smile on his face.

"The inventor's assistant, of course."

….

"You want to use her as _bait_? Are you out of your mind?" it was Porthos who first attacked Athos' suggestion.

"I can't let you do that," Gerard interjected, finally making his way across the room and joining the crowd. "Use _me_ instead."

"Yes, use _him_," Porthos agreed.

"No!" cried Philippe and Aramis simultaneously.

Athos turned to Porthos and casually said:

"I think you should know that _he_," he paused and pointed to Gerard from head to toe, "INTENDS ON MARRYING HER!" With that, he pointed at Marianne with the same dramatic gusto.

Every one in the room gasped, as Gerard covered his face with his hands. How he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

"You WHAT?" Porthos turned his attention on the young man.

Aramis crossed her arms over her chest and turned away in ire. _Curious_, Philippe thought. That could only mean one thing. It appears his femme-musketeer had a type: sensitive and intellectual men.

Gerard took a deep breath, a step back and addressed the one person whom he did not want to upset any further: Marianne.

"It was only as a last-resort option for your protection," then, turning to Porthos, "I promise."

The giant seemed satisfied with his answer turned back to his two comrades. Gerard, relieved, wiped the temporary sweat that had moistened his forehead and shot Athos a dark look. It would seem that Athos had chosen a more inconvenient route to settle his account with him.

_Also, curious_, Philippe remarked.

When the air was slightly calmer, Athos spoke again, this time with more caution:

"At the peril of sounding insensitive to several parties in this room, unfortunately we have no choice but to use you, Mademoiselle. I believe there is also a personal reason behind the Iron Mask's pursuit of you. Or at least, one of the Iron Masks. A scorned lover, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Marianne looked away, embarrassed. There was no point in denying it. Philippe had revealed all the details. Maxim de Rameau and her relationship with him was now on full display.

"There has to be another way," Porthos persisted.

For once throughout the evening, the young Comtesse finally spoke:

"No, he's right. There is no other way."

"Marianne…" Gerard addressed her pleadingly. But she did not acknowledge him.

"It's my life and it's my choice."

With that, she quieted the room and no one else opposed her.

"Well, then, Monsieur Athos, what is your plan?"

…..

Athos paced about the room as he spoke.

"First, we must consider how the Iron Mask knew about the Comtesse's whereabouts in the first place."

Porthos sneered, "Well we know how Rochefort knew. Thanks to my imbecile of a brother-in-law."

"Exactly. The two seemed to have arrived at the same time."

"What, do you think Rochefort is in cahoots with the Iron Mask?" Treville inquired.

Athos shook his head.

"No. But I do believe that there are spies amongst the Red Guard. Perhaps even Rochefort's servants. After all, how do you explain how easy it was for Rameau to carry out his plan at the Cardinal's residence? And then the failure of the Red Guard to follow them after they kidnapped the Comte de Danruand?"

"I don't know, the usual? A massive amount of incompetence?" Porthos offered.

Athos chuckled. "That may be. But the Red Guard are still devoted to their leader to a fault."

"Of course, Rameau is not the type to think the Cardinal has simply invited him to turn over a new leaf. He must have planted spies and allies everywhere," continued Athos. "He would not have sent his men on a goose chase looking for a lost damsel. Instead, he went right to the people who _were_ looking for her and who had the means to do so. As soon as Rochefort received word, they followed him to the Beaugrand estate."

"If that's the case, why wouldn't they have killed Lemay already?" Treville interjected.

"That would look too suspicious. Just like Richelieu, they had banked on him dying a natural death."

"By this logic, then they must know by now that the Comtesse is here at the Louvre," Philippe pointed out.

Athos nodded.

"And also by this logic," Philippe continued excitedly, "You can pay Rochefort a visit and let him know what is to become of the Comtesse. You would pretend it is for her safety. You would tell him the exact location. They would get word of it and follow you and BAM! You ambush them!"

"Excellent, Your Highness!" Athos encouraged him.

"I will dispatch the men, then," Treville declared.

"No!" Athos objected. "We have to be a small group. We need to give the illusion that we are, in fact, a much weaker adversary. If it is only a handful of us, they will undoubtedly send all of their men to pursue us, including both Iron Masks."

"I'm sure he has it in for a certain group of musketeers. He will not to throw away this opportunity for revenge," Porthos added, rubbing the knuckles of his fist.

"So we will lure them to a place we have familiarized ourselves with well, define our escape plan and then use a great deal of gun powder to blow it up."

"A second Belle-Isle!" Aramis exclaimed. He nodded, smiling. If anyone could read his thoughts, it was Aramis.

"While I commend your thoroughness and strategy as always, Athos, there aren't many places in France like Belle-Isle. At least, not close enough for you to arrive before and make your reconnaissance."

Indeed. That was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. The room fell silent for a while, each person absorbed in their thoughts.

"I know a place!" piped up the young Comtesse, looking excited, mischievous and radiant for the first time in a long time.

"Wonderful! Then, I'm coming with you!" declared Philippe, mimicking Marianne's enthusiasm.


	40. Chez la Comtesse

**Chapter 40: Chez La Comtesse**

The horses came to a gradual stop as an immense building loomed into view some distance away.

Porthos' jaw dropped wide open as he took in the scene before him. The Dandurand manor – or rather, castle – spread out comfortably over at least twenty acres, such that from his current vantage point, the musketeer could see nothing else in sight but its magnificent walls. It was made up of three wings, marked by two discrete towers and one large imposing one facing East.

"You live… HERE?" he yelled in the direction of Marianne and her valet.

"Porthos, hush!" cautioned Athos. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves just yet."

They had reached their destination a couple of hours after dawn, having left the Louvre late to take advantage of the night cover. The morning sun was shining splendidly in the East, casting its long warm rays onto the stone walls of the castle, making the fine particles of salt in its stone shine, giving it an ethereal glimmer. While in the West, heavy clouds were gathering, darkening the sky. The contrast in the light made the scene before them appear as though it was from a fantastical fairy tale.

"Stay here while I open the drawbridge," Gerard announced as he dismounted. He had been driving the carriage in which Prince Philippe and Marianne traveled. Yet, far from affording them a luxury travel experience, the carriage served two other purposes: the first was to give the illusion to any onlookers that, indeed, the Comtesse de Dandurand was returning home; the second, was to transport a great massive deal of gun powder. Although judging by the size and grandness of the building to be sorrowfully transformed into a rubble, Athos began to doubt whether their supply of gun powder would make any impact at all. He stroked his goatee thoughtfully as he surveyed the place.

On his end, Porthos hadn't liked the idea of having Marianne in a carriage full of gun powder one bit. He had insisted that she should ride with him but alas, given his injury and Marianne's shoddy riding, it was not an option. Instead, he had climbed behind Aramis while his horse and the Prince's drew the carriage.

"_A drawbridge_?" he now exclaimed lowering his voice but without losing his bewildered excitement. Athos rolled his eyes while Aramis smiled.

He had been fidgeting in his seat behind her as he extended his neck here and there to look around, crushing her back in the process.

"Good God, there's a moat, too!" he exclaimed again.

"Well, what did you think the drawbridge was for?" Aramis turned to him with mocking eyebrows.

"Oh, I don't know, a symbol of status? An architectural aesthetic? Who uses drawbridges, anyway these days? It's so Medieval," he retorted. She smiled at him affectionately. How endearing can Porthos be! Especially when he was being dense.

"How rich _are_ these people?" he went on. "Must be richer than the King himself."

"Really, Porthos!" Aramis nudged him and nodded towards the carriage. "Lower your voice or _she_ will hear you."

Athos brought his horse a step back, to be closer to his comrades.

"Indeed. I think you have said enough to that poor young woman already," he smirked at his friend.

"What! How did you…? Who told you?" Porthos questioned him anxiously and indignantly.

"Aramis filled me in while we were waiting for the Prince to get dressed and while you were away with de Villebois, getting your arm taken care of," Athos responded casually.

"Oh, she did, didn't she?" he said, giving Aramis a dark look. The latter covered her hand with her mouth, suppressing her laughter. But he didn't really care. At least those two were talking again.

At last, the drawbridge came down and the party rolled gradually up a steep hill that led to a gate which opened onto the main courtyard. Gerard de Villebois brought up the rear and closed the bridge behind them before making sure they were not followed.

When they reached the courtyard, after some exertion on part of the horses, and especially Aramis' horse, the castle looked even more imposing and somewhat threatening. Once could see how the building had been neglected in certain places and weathered in other places. Athos determined that the foundation was not as stable as he had thought. The plan might work after all.

Looking behind them now from atop the hill, they could see the moat stretching around the castle in a semi-circle, until it joined a river that surrounded the rest of the perimeter. Thus, the other side of the castle was raised on foundations that went right through the riverbank.

"There are dams on the moat that keeps the river levels in check," explained Gerard as he joined them. "If you release the dams, you can flood the moat. With the high walls along the length of the moat, it becomes impossible to go in or out except through the drawbridge. And if we're lucky," he pointed at the greying sky, "there will be a storm that will raise the water levels even more."

"By God, this _is_ a Belle-Isle!" declared Porthos.

…

Upon arrival, the party separated into two groups: Athos, Aramis and Gerard took the carriage towards the kitchen entrance to unload the gunpowder into a safe and dry place until they decided where to plant it.

The Comtesse de Dandurand, on her part, led the Prince and the musketeer towards the front door. To the surprise of the two men, she produced a screwdriver from some hidden pocket in her dress and began loosening some screws on either side of the door frame.

The Prince inched nearer to take a closer look. The door was large and made of solid iron, embellished with carved wooden decorations. When Marianne was finished, he could see that she had in fact opened hidden panels in the frame which contained small levers.

"Very well," she exhaled, wiping her brow. "Let's see if I remember the sequence correctly."

She scratched at her chin, while she squinted at the door, searching her memory.

"Err, and what happens if it's wrong?" Porthos asked.

Marianne flashed him a smile and pointed upwards. His eyes widened and he gulped loudly. Right above them was a thick iron plate, held in place by iron chains that seemed to go through the walls. On this moveable plate were sharp spikes.

"You mean… that… would fall on us?"

Marianne sneered, "I suppose I had never truly understood why an insignificant family like us who never received anyone and lived out of sight needed to have itself surrounded by such exorbitant levels of protection."

With that, Marianne began pulling on the levers. One on the left, two on the right, then two on the left, two again on the right and the one again on the left.

The two men watched her nervously, the sweat creeping up on their foreheads. A chilling sound startled them as the chain holding the spike plate above them rattled. When the door hadn't budged, Porthos was ready to pull Marianne and the Prince and make a run for it but then she seemed to remember that there was one last lever. She pulled it and then kicked at the door frame, which appeared to jumpstart the mechanism. The door painfully screeched as it opened begrudgingly.

"W-Why couldn't we have gone through the kitchen with the others?" Philippe stammered with relief. He and Porthos proceeded to take off their hats reluctantly upon entry.

"The kitchen door is not as heavily guarded. If an intruder were to walk in through the kitchen while the front is locked, the entire kitchen would be sealed off by bars that descend from the wall and block the entrances."

"Like a mouse trap?"

"Precisely."

As they were conversing, Porthos looked around him. Any awe that had possessed him regarding this place was beginning to dissipate. The musketeer had such a love for everything that flickered and glittered. Like many women in the French court, he too, adored extravagance in decorations, fineness in dress and expensive flashy accessories. He couldn't deny that the first time he had met the Comtesse de Dandurand, he was as much attracted by her figure as by the promise of wealth and status that her glimmering expensive golden dress exuded. Yet, unlike many aristocratic women whom he had the pleasure of courting, the young Comtesse turned out to be not just a temporary patroness who would provide him with an allowance and a warm bed.

Porthos listened absently to what Marianne was saying. "The castle had been built in the 13th century, with several modifications and renovations since. It consists of three wings. One is where our living quarters and servants' quarters are. Although we have no servants. The other wing is where the library, dining and drawing rooms and other utility rooms are. As for the last wing… well, it's not in use… anymore."

They had advanced past the foyer into a large hall that had two staircases and several doors and entryways leading to the wings Marianne was describing. When she spoke, it seemed that the whole castle echoed with her voice, which led Porthos to conclude that the emptiness that decorated this hall was a recurring theme in this place.

He wandered around, keeping close to his companions, peeking through an entryway here and there. There were tapestries scattered on a few walls, hanging alongside some ancient portraits. Otherwise, the walls were as naked as the rooms they contained. Furniture was scarce and minimal. Mahogany wood seemed to be the choice for most pieces. Porthos grimaced at some of these pieces. He had been to many chateaus to know what was and wasn't in style. Nothing in this house was "up to style". It was, in fact, ugly. Overall, the place was dark, damp and lacklustre. "Rich" was no longer the word that came to mind. It was lifeless and depressing. Instead of it being the image of a fairy tale, it seemed like just the place where ghosts would live.

"…Gerard will no doubt demonstrate all the secret passageways and chambers. You see, if you look there…"

Porthos rejoined his companions, trying to concentrate on what their hostess was saying. He took in the figure of the young woman before him. Unlike the many women of her rank, and especially those Porthos knew, Marianne looked provincial. As if she was a farm girl that someone had mistaken for a lady. There was always somehow a rebellious strand or two of her hair sticking out; the hue of her hair kept changing depending on the light, as if it refused to be boxed into just one predictable color; her eyes were captivating when she spoke but unremarkable otherwise; although she was eighteen years of age, she still dressed like a girl, in plain pastels with the occasional ribbon; her hands were rough and stained, very much the opposite of dainty and delicate; her bosom was larger and less restrained – to Porthos' delight; oh, but unlike many of the women of the court who had thin pursed lips, Marianne was in possession of the most scrumptious, plump and moist ones!

He sighed, fondly reminiscing of their most passionate moments. Ah, but who was _he_, in the end, to turn up his nose on a farm girl, anyway? Porthos had never been one for fantasies or daydreams but the more he stared at Marianne the more he realized that this is exactly what a Madame du Vallon ought to be like.

Perhaps she was not the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was far from being plain. She was unique, bright and very much unlike this place, she was full of life.

_Full of life…_

A life that had been spent in some sort of a metaphorical prison. His heart ached for her. He imagined her as a child, with unruly reddish curls, a petulant pout and furrowed brows. How adorable she must have been. And how sad. An orphan brought up by an eccentric criminal, desperate for some love and warmth that was never to come.

He thought back to his own childhood. He had grown up in a big family with barely anything to their name. But they had been happy. Yet, he often envied the privilege and material security of his mistresses and their husbands. The Comtesse de Dandurand had been no different to him. He had envied her as well, admittedly.

"Money isn't everything, my son," his mother's voice echoed in his mind.

"But it's nice to have, Maman!" he would whine to her then list all the things he wanted and would do if he had money. She would then pinch his cheek and kiss the top of his head, laughing.

"Careful or you'll become a miserable greedy old man! Better to choose love over money, hm?"

He chuckled inwardly to himself. If Marianne had nothing, which might as well be the case after all of this was over, would he feel the same about her? Would her allure diminish? Ah, but he had been down that road; the path to try and forget her yet without avail. He doubted he ever could forget her. She was made for him and he for her. He knew from their first encounter.

She had an appetite for life that rivaled his. She was feisty, rebellious and unlike Aramis, she never needed to be discrete. She was outspoken, loud and petulant about what she wanted, or did not want for that matter. In that way at least, she was as every bit entitled as any aristocratic prick.

He exhaled profoundly. Oh, but what an arse he had been, truly. How could he have thought that Marianne was after marrying a man for money? And especially Rochefort! God, how mistaken he was. How dumb! _"A flaky flirt",_ Athos had said. _To hell with you, Athos_. I'm never listening to _you_ again. Taking advice from someone whose wife had betrayed him, who then tried to kill said wife, failed spectacularly and then somehow managed to make a gigantic mess of things with the only chance of love he would ever get in this life. Heavens, if anyone needed a lesson, it was Athos himself.

He so wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, to lift her up and twirl her around. To erase all the unpleasantness from her life, all the unpleasantness between them. To start all over again. Together.

He tugged gently at her sleeve like a little boy wanting attention, interrupting her speech to the Prince.

"You live… _here_?" he uttered, this time with sadness rather than enthusiasm.

Marianne tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was not hard to read him. He felt sorry for her to the point that he looked like he was going to burst into tears. And why shouldn't he? She was quite pitiful. It was all she could do to maintain her composure. No, she will not cry, she will not break down and make a fool of herself. And yet, she knew that if she were to do so, he would take her with open arms and an open heart that she could never feel like a fool with him. No, he would make her feel safe and… one day she would have thought he would have made her feel loved too. But she was no longer sure and she no longer wanted to hope.

"Yes," she responded to him, then attempted to change the subject, "my father was born here. He brought my mother when they married. The castle has been in the family for generations and…"

She abruptly stopped, her eyes wide open with alarm. She instinctively gripped his arm.

"What is it?" Porthos whispered.

"There is someone here. We are not alone."


	41. The de Villebois Household

**Chapter 41: The de Villebois Household**

The three companions stood back to back, surveying the room. The two men – the Prince and musketeer – had taken it upon themselves to surround the young lady so as no harm would come to her. Philippe had taken out his pistols and Porthos unsheathed his sword.

Everything went suddenly quiet and the room took on a much darker and eerier air than Porthos could have thought possible.

They waited silently.

And waited.

Porthos nodded in the direction of an entryway to the left, where he thought he had heard something. He then gestured for them to move and they inched a few steps towards the entryway.

It all happened so quickly from there. They were right in the center of the room when a strange whiff of inspiration – call it divine intervention – descended upon Marianne's spirit, rekindling her memory to the existence of yet another of her uncle's so-called "protection" mechanisms (in other words, a "booby trap").

She shot her head up towards the ceiling and sure enough, before she even saw it coming, she heard the clacking of chains and the tinkling of glass as the giant chandelier above them came crashing down on their heads.

In a split second, she acted swiftly, pushing Philippe out of the way while kicking Porthos in the knees, catching him by surprise and causing him to topple over and fall away before she herself could...

CRASH!

As soon as he realized what had happened, Porthos recovered himself and yelled, "MARIANNE!"

_No, no, no, not again! Always too late, you fool! _He berated himself angrily as he crawled towards her.

Her body was thrown on the ground, entirely covered in shards of broken glass. Her right arm was stretched out underneath her as her left hand covered her face, which was buried in her right shoulder.

"Marianne, no!" he whispered as he began to pick out the pieces off of her.

"Gently," Philippe cautioned as he joined him.

"Mmm…" a slight moan escaped the Comtesse, igniting the heart of the musketeer. He placed his hand under her cheek and turned her head around, dreading with every second the disfiguration she has probably been subjected to.

He placed her head in his lap, as he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing her completely intact. Philippe announced that no shard had penetrated her body.

He cupped her face and stroked her gently. How darling she was. How pretty and pure. Having spied the adoring gaze in the musketeer's eyes, the Prince removed himself to give them privacy and stealthily walked towards the entryway in search of the culprit.

"Marianne," he whispered again. He lowered himself closer to her, his breath warming her face.

A smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth, as her eyes slowly flickered back to life. She stared at him longingly before stretching her arm out and caressing his face. He returned her smile and lowered his head even more. How desperately did he want to taste her lips once more! Alas, did he have a right to, after everything?

"I had forgotten about that," she said weakly, pointing to the chandelier. He chuckled softly.

"Well, thank goodness you remembered."

His lips hovered dangerously close to hers. She parted hers slightly in anticipation. His heart beat faster. Her hand went to his thick neck, subtly bringing him closer to her. Oh, but how dumb can she possibly be? How many times must she go down that road before she learned that nothing goodcame out of it? Oh, but shouldn't she?

… probably not.

Her hand dropped and she turned her face away. He attempted to hide his disappointment with a cordial smile and offered his assistance to her as she got up and regained her balance. She shook out the shards from her dress and he helped her remove some from her hair.

"Marianne, I…" he began. She looked up at him with big expecting eyes.

Before he could continue, they heard a strange kerfuffle behind them and as they turned around, they saw none other than Prince Philippe dragging an unknown figure in his arms as he held a pistol to their side.

"The culprit, _mes amis_!" he announced proudly.

…..

"Well _done_, monsieur!" Porthos beamed at him as he approached the Prince and his prey.

The Prince reveled in his moment of victory. How often had he dreamed of heroism since he returned to the Louvre! How often had he replayed Belle-Isle in his head, where he would have been thrown a sword and stood his ground to combat those miscreants like a real man instead of being carried away by Porthos like a sack of potatoes?! How useless and ashamed he had felt. What would Francois have thought of him? Especially after the poor tutor had spent hours of his life training Philippe in the art of fencing. What a disgrace!

Alas, his moment didn't last long for the stranger he was holding in his arms began to convulse and sob. It had been too dark to make out the face but he now realized that it was, in fact, a woman.

In his shock, he relaxed his grip on her and she almost threw herself in the direction of Marianne, wailing and calling out to her. If it weren't for Porthos' quick reaction, the woman would have landed right on the young Comtesse, probably not before causing her a great deal of harm.

But it only took them a short while to realize that she was unarmed and as Marianne came out of shock, she realized that it was not an enemy at all. But in fact, a very welcome friend.

"Madame Villy! It's you!" she exclaimed. And to Porthos, "Let her go, I beg you!" Porthos and the Prince exchanged a look before the musketeer obeyed his mistress.

The woman flung herself onto Marianne, who embraced her in return. The two men regarded each other and the scene in front of them with utter confusion.

"But I…" Philippe ventured, as if to justify to himself that the only time he had managed to capture someone in a heroic act turned out to be a fluke.

"What on earth is going on?" Gerard de Villebois stormed into the room, followed by the two musketeers, pistols and swords drawn. Having heard the commotion, they had run out of the kitchen, up some stairs, down a corridor, down more stairs and found themselves in the midst of a most peculiar scene that caused them to stop dead in their tracks.

Aramis looked at Porthos questioningly and he replied with a shrug.

"Gerard! Look who it is!" Marianne called out to the young man.

He dropped his sword to the floor and his body stiffened as the woman disengaged from the Comtesse and now flung herself at him.

"My son! O, my son, you are here. It is you!" she sobbed.

He clenched his jaw and he patted her back gently. _What a spectacle_, he rolled his eyes and prayed for deliverance.

"This is Madame Alice de Villebois," Marianne introduced the newcomer. "I call her Madame Villy."

"Ahhh!" they all said unanimously, the confusion finally giving way to comprehension.

Gerard placed his hands on the woman's shoulders as he tore himself away from her almost disgustedly.

"Mother," he addressed her coldly. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, hiding her face in embarrassment.

"Forgive me…" she uttered and gestured meekly to the chandelier. Although one could tell she was more troubled by her own display of emotion than by her attempt to assault the intruders.

"Oh, not at all. We were unannounced and I daresay, if I were a woman alone in this house, I would have done nothing less," declared Porthos with his usual casual friendliness.

"Indeed," echoed Philippe, smiling.

"Mother," Gerard repeated, exasperated. "May I introduce the King's musketeers. This is Athos, Aramis, Porthos and…" he paused as he gestured to Philippe. It was out of the question to introduce him as the Dauphin of France, not to his own mother and not to anyone. It was already risky enough that he insisted to come along for this and quite the miracle that he was even permitted to. To announce his true identity was suicide.

"Erm…" he hesitated. The others froze, not knowing what to say. He had worn the musketeer's iconic blue casket as a disguise, but how had no one thought about an identity for him?

Without knowing how, the idea came to him quickly.

"Uhh, Monsieur Renard, Musketeer Cadet," he ventured. "But you can call me simply… Renard."

He flashed her a smile and bowed. She looked at him with amused suspicion. These men sure had memorable names. Athos and Aramis, quite regally fitting. Porthos, less regal, but certainly fit for the grandeur of its bearer. But Renard! It seemed the man lacked either imagination or a sense of self-worth or both. And yet, he was quite the stealth. Besides, the color of his hair seemed awfully reminiscent of red foxes. Well, perhaps it _was_ suited after all. As if finally satisfied by his answer, she nodded.

"You are all welcome, gentlemen. What brings you here?"

"Uh, it's quite a long tale, Madame Villy," piped up Marianne. "I do wonder if we could have something to eat first, though."

As soon as she had finished that sentence, a loud gurgling noise filled the hall. Porthos clutched his stomach and laughed nervously.

Aramis turned to Athos and in a low voice said, "Did I not tell you there were two of them now?"

Athos, his arms across his chest, chuckled, "Well, then, it seems I had been a fool for not believing you."

He gave her a sideways glance that was met by a warm and familiar smile. Oh, how he had missed her! He suppressed an instinct to place his arm around her waist and pull her close to him.

….

Mother and son were alone in the kitchen as the others went to ensure that the place was indeed secure and empty of intruders.

Madame Alice de Villebois was a tall stout woman. Ever since Gerard was a boy, his mother sported the same hairstyle of a low bun tied neatly in the back. Over the years, her golden locks gave way to an imperial silver that made her look all the more severe. They were never really close. Like any mother, Alice cared for her son, ensured he was well-fed, well-groomed and taught him manners and discipline. But she had never been one for generous displays of affection. She was also English.

She had married for love, a match that displeased her family and made her decision to live in France easier. She had exchanged letters with her family here and there and attempted at reconciliation but she never saw them again. With Jerome and the Dandurands, Alice had a new life, a new family and a new place to call home. After the death of Marianne's parents and her husband, she became more withdrawn and a lot more stoic, as if a permanent statue had taken her place.

Gerard had never seen his mother cry once and what he saw today troubled him beyond anything. Was she truly worried for him? Afraid for him? She had never approved of who or, rather, _what_ he was. She certainly suspected but always managed to avoid any conversation that could lead to any remote emotional discomfort. Instead, she restricted her conversation to the weather, the chores and some random gossip from the village.

"Ought you not to go with them to guide them through the castle?" she asked him, hoping he would leave and forget their untidy reunion to save herself some awkwardness.

He didn't answer, preferring to busy himself in lighting the fire for the stoves.

"Well, as long as you're here, you might prepare the baths for them. They look like a sorry lot and your mistress looks worse for the wear," she commented, as she fastened her apron.

"She's _not_ my mistress," he said harshly.

"Well, she's not your friend, remember that. She's the niece of your employer," she lectured.

He sighed. "So you have been telling me my whole life," he mumbled. Yet for the first time in his life, he almost believed her. He desperately did not want to, but a part of him was giving in. He and Marianne had grown up together. They had shared everything together. He confided everything in her and she in him. Didn't that make them friends? Or had he misunderstood and all along he had been the keeper of her secrets and nothing more? The object of her amusement when she was bored? Or, as he recently learned, the nameless bodyguard whose life can be easily sacrificed for hers?

The memories of the last few weeks came flooding back to him. What a patient woman his mother was! She could wait for hours after seeing her son - whom she had presumed missing - to find out what had happened to him, without even bothering a "how are you getting on?" in the meantime.

He stood silently, fidgeting with his fingers, watching her arrange some pots and pans on the stove.

He couldn't withstand this oppressive silence any longer.

"You knew all along, didn't you?" he said to her.

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists as this accusation landed on her neck like an executioner's blade.

"Why?" he reproached, his anger rising.

She swallowed and looked down.

"To protect you and Marianne."

… was that all she could say?

His pupils widened and he looked as though he was breathing fire from his nostrils. He flung at her in a frightening rage that she had never in her life expected from the docile and quiet boy who was every bit as his father, so gentle and kind and harmless. He gripped her wrists in his and squeezed them painfully, as if trying to extract some truths or confessions by way of osmosis.

Just like his father, Gerard resembled a deep well that could hold the secrets and burdens of those around them, while nurturing and giving sustenance. And in its depths, it held a volcanic stupor that when ignited, could swallow and drown anyone in its infinite abyss.

From his early infancy, Alice could tell that her baby was made of the same cloth as his father. How had she rejoiced that he had not taken after her or her side of the family. As the young woman that she was at the time, she idolised Jerome. He was kind, loving, doting, romantic and she knew she could never do better. There _was_ no better man. Everything she gave up for him was well worth it and he supplied her with more love and comfort than her family ever could.

They had met at the Court of Navarre one fateful summer. Alice had come to Navarre with her uncle, an English merchant with French roots, interested in furthering his Reformist education. She was absorbed into the Court as a maid and soon met the Marquise Katherine d'Aren, whom she devotedly and lovingly served until her immature end. The two young women were confidantes to each other and despite their differences in wealth and rank, Alice let herself believe for a time that they were actually friends.

One summer, a young man name Charles de Dandurand, began courting Katherine and he had brought with him his friend, Doctor Jerome de Villebois. Alice soon learned that the de Villebois family served the household of the Dandurands for many generations. Charles' father took a liking to Jerome and almost adopted him as a son. Jerome had shown so much potential as a child and was a positive influence on the unruly Charles and the aloof Paul-Francois that he quickly became a favorite to their father. As such, all three young men were sent to school together. Jerome advanced to become a doctor and Charles became an inventor and a second heir. The two men were inseparable so it was a mighty lucky coincidence that Katherine had a companion who would suit Jerome.

Alice knew about the Ordre de Lys Blanc before Jerome, but she was only initiated after she was married. The foursome engaged in many exciting intrigues and adventures after that. They faithfully served their King and fought to stop those who plotted against him. They were young and invincible and in love. Life had so much to offer and the future looked bright and promising.

Then one day, it all began to crumble bit by bit. It had started with the tragic death of Rosalie de Rameau. The year after, King Henry was assassinated. Members of the Ordre started disappearing one by one. Fear and terror gripped the Protestants once more. Katherine grew more and more paranoid and unhinged at times. And then one night… they were all gone in one swoop: Katherine, Charles and Jerome. And Alice found herself totally alone in the world.

Paul-Francois, who was a changed man by then, had let her and Gerard stay with him. In exchange, she assumed the role of housekeeper. How she had wanted to escape this dreadful place that reminded her so much of happy times and the man she loved. But she had nowhere else to go. She couldn't go back to England and an English Protestant in France was simply a death sentence. At the time, she had been filled with so much grief she hadn't minded a death sentence. But for her son, she tucked herself away behind the protective yet oppressive walls of this dwelling, where the ghosts of her late husband and only friend seemed to mock her with their unavoidable presence.

She and Paul-Francois were both weary and saturated with loss. They became complicit in their omission of the truth from the children of the house. They had decided it was best to protect them. But really, they had wanted to forget. With that, they each became a shadow of their former selves.

"You knew how much I loved my father!" he thundered at her. "How could you hide it all these years? You knew how much he meant to me! How much I grieved for him! I had a right to know about how he lived his life, about how he died!"

As he towered menacingly over her, the tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. How like his father he had grown up to be! No matter how angry he was, she could only see Jerome.

"I had the right to avenge him," he hissed.

She shook her head. "I couldn't lose you, too."

"It was never your choice to make!" he yelled again. He was filled with so much fury he lifted his arm to strike her. She winced.

A hand clasped his wrist while another wrapped around his waist and forcefully pulled him away.

"Please, don't," A pair of clear blue eyes plunged into his, pleadingly. There was so much compassion and so much kindness in them, it completely destabilized him. Having come back to his senses, he shook the intruder off of him and stormed out of the kitchen.

Philippe could only stare after longingly after him as Alice regarded the Cadet Musketeer with a new curiosity. She hadn't realized just how oddly familiar he looked.


	42. Old Wounds

**Chapter 42: Old Wounds**

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where the magic happens!" announced Marianne proudly as she strutted into her uncle's workshop. The three musketeers trailed behind her.

"And you're certain that there's nothing here that can kill us just for walking in?" demanded Porthos, taking in all the strange-looking instruments and materials around him.

Marianne chuckled. "Quite. I managed to deactivate all the traps beforehand."

"Well, isn't _that_ a relief!" exclaimed the grand musketeer, wiping his brow.

"Although," continued Marianne, slithering herself behind him as he held up a flask containing a liquid of a strange color. "Although, there is always the possibility that I might have forgotten a trap or two." She winked at him.

He turned around to face her, only to realize that they were standing an inch apart. From the sly look on her face, he could tell she was pulling his leg.

"Not funny," he retorted, giving her a dark look.

She giggled, grabbing the flask from his hand and placing it on a higher shelf.

"You probably shouldn't touch that. It's immensely corrosive."

"Ah-ha, and is there anything here that is _not_ designed to kill or injure?"

Marianne placed her index finger on her chin, adopting a thinking posture.

"Why, the more I think about it, the more I realize that the answer to your question is 'no'," she replied, smiling, "Suffice it to say, you probably shouldn't touch _anything_ in here."

With that, she flashed him a grin and scampered off to her uncle's desk, where Athos was studying some formulas and blueprints.

…

There was so much to see and examine in this corner of the house; it was difficult to know where to begin. Aramis trailed around the edges of the room, surveying some of its queer contents. A collection of leaves, preserved insects and spyglasses on one table; a telescope – or an attempt at one - , star charts, rulers and compasses on another; a welding station; a carpentry station; shelves with murky glass jars and others with worn-out books; a small burner with stained pots and flasks cast aside it. Parchments of scribbles and notes scattered everywhere. That was all nothing next to the large structures of complex machinery that dominated the space in the middle. One had to walk in a strict parameter to avoid any accidents. And from the looks of it, an accident was just waiting to happen.

She glanced quickly at Porthos to make sure he had enough space to move around comfortably. He was standing underneath a tall crane, which, she assumed was just the thing that had been used to build the machine that switched the rooms in the Iron Mask's plot. He was too close to a pulley she was certain he will get a hit on the head with it.

"Port-" she began but stopped short when a shiny metallic object caught her eye. As if under a daze, she moved mechanically towards it.

"OW!" Porthos cried as he hit his head on the pulley. Just as Aramis had predicted.

She would have laughed, except that a darkness enveloped her. She twisted the short, thin blade around in her hands. It was just as she remembered: a devilish snake-like dagger that was made of metallic vertebrae. When used in this form, it was malleable and flexible, functioning as a chain. But when shaken out – she gripped it and flicked it – it transformed into an elaborate and strong sword.

How could she ever forget? This was the blade she duelled twice. The second time, it almost killed her were it not for the sturdy ruby of Francois' pendant. Her other hand flew to her chest where she felt through her doublet for the pendant.

She ran her hand absent-mindedly on the long blade, turning it around in her palm. Upon closer inspection, she could determine that the weapon had never been used. It was pristine. Whoever it was intended for clearly had no use for it. Her thumb suddenly detected an irregularity in smoothness. She held it up for scrutiny. There was an inscription on it that read, "_In love and light we trust. F.M._"

"You heard the lady."

She jumped, knocking over a few metal rods and causing a raucous.

"What did I tell you!" Porthos, who had snuck up behind her, bent down to collect the fallen items and place them back. "We shouldn't touch anything in here. This whole place just gives me the willies."

The blond musketeer was too lost in thought and fixated on the object she was holding to pay attention to her colleague.

"Aramis?" Porthos nudged her, concerned.

"Yes, sorry, it's just…" she trailed off.

"What _is_ this?"

He gently removed the weapon from her hand to examine it himself, marveling at its multi-faceted capacity.

"Manson had the same exact blade," she uttered in a thick voice.

"Oh, right," as if he had been holding a hot coal in his hand, he dropped the sword back onto the table.

"You've been distant since we left Paris," he lightly tapped her forehead.

She gave him a weak smile and looked away.

He lifted her chin up to him, plunging his grey greenish eyes in her azure ones. "You worry me. You're beginning to look like your old self when we first met you."

Her gaze softened.

"You don't have to hide anymore now, you know," he cooed to her.

She squeezed his hand in hers. He was right. She _had_ been occupied ever since the history of this infamous plot was unfurled to them. She thought that the affair had ended in Belle-Isle, that her destiny was finally fulfilled there. Francois was duly avenged. And yet…

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she now had more questions about his death than ever before. Far from the matter being rested, it was as if this grave had been dug up and the ghosts of the past had come back to haunt her once more.

A lump formed in her throat. More painful than the rekindled memory of Francois' death was finding out just how little she did know about the man she loved. How much more there was to discover. Of course, there is always more to discover about someone but eight years ago, she thought she had the rest of her life by his side to know everything about him. But now, once again, she had to live and find things out all on her own. Without him.

Nevertheless, Porthos was right again: she needn't hide anymore now. She could tell them everything she was thinking and feeling. She could solicit their help in finding out the truth. She was free now.

Wasn't she?

Then why couldn't she? Why could she never talk to Athos about her past? Because he was her lover? Weren't lovers supposed to share their secrets with each other? Why had it been so easy with Gerard?

Ah, but the young valet was a stranger to her. Moreover, he was a stranger with similar pains and similar scars. Even so, she wasn't attached to him as much as she was to Athos and Porthos. In her heart of hearts, she feared that showing too much of her true self, of her past, of her wounds, would push them away once more. She feared their rejection – a rejection she had bitterly tasted when she betrayed them for the Captain's post and when they discovered her true identity. She simply couldn't risk more. She couldn't handle more. The pain of not being Athos' lover was great, but compared to losing his friendship and camaraderie, it was tolerable.

"We should join the others," she said to Porthos as she released his hand, cleared her throat and walked towards the other two.

Porthos stared after her. Despite his disappointment in not being confided in, he knew that his Aramis was a creature of time. If he gave her enough time and space, she always came around. Thus, confident in his connaissance of his best friend and their solid friendship, he followed her. He would always follow her anyway. To battle, to death, to the ends of the earth if need be.

….

Several wooden buckets and ladles clacked noisily against each other as they were carelessly thrown out of their resting place in a supply closet.

Gerard de Villebois was experiencing a rare turmoil. Rage, injustice, betrayal, blind grief and hatred all fused together, sending him into a very dark corner of his soul that he had never been acquainted with before. Instead of feeling a cautionary fear as a result of the novelty of this sensation – as one is usually afraid of unknown places – he felt a raw and new energy that culminated in a strong and unstoppable desire for one thing and one thing only: revenge.

How would he do it? With pistols? With a blade? Would it be quick or slow? Oh, definitely slow. He wanted the man who killed his father to suffer for it and suffer terribly. What if he captured him and tortured him first? He wanted to make him plead for his life and beg him for forgiveness, for relief from the misery that he intended to inflict upon him. He wanted to suck out the guilt and remorse out of him to a desperate point, to give him hope that, should he say the right things he will release him but alas… he never would. No, he would end him right then and there.

He certainly had the means for it. The workshop was laden with instruments that would accomplish the purpose perfectly. No one would miss this man anyway. He would be doing the world a great justice.

Wouldn't he?

If it was the Comte de Rameau, then probably, yes. Nevertheless, the object of his anger mutated from one second to another; from Rameau himself, to his son Maxim, to the Iron Mask, to the Comte de Dandurand and to a lesser extent, his own mother.

How could she have hidden the truth all these years? How could she have allied herself with someone like the Comte de Dandurand when she knew full well what he was and whom he was serving?!

_To protect him. _

This seemed to be the favorite excuse amongst many. After all, Philippe did conclude his account with an emphasized justification on the Comte's actions being to protect his niece.

A coward's excuse.

"Euh, may I help?" a gentle voice startled him.

He sighed with exasperation. Not _him_ again. He was not in the mood to entertain royalty and he hadn't understood why the Prince was so bent on accompanying them. As if Marianne needed more suitors! Heavens, if this were to be kept up, he would soon have to fend off all the men in France for her.

Argh, Marianne. Hadn't he also used that sorry excuse of protecting her to justify his own shortcomings? Aramis had so elegantly pointed it out to him.

Seeing as though he won't be receiving an answer, Philippe proceeded in arranging the ladles and chasing after the buckets that had rolled away.

"Please, Your Highness, you don't need to…" Gerard began, forcing himself out of his reverie.

"Not at all, I insist," he gave him a warm smile. Gerard was taken aback. It was as if he was seeing the man in front of him for the first time. Prince Philippe was not unhandsome, quite the contrary. But his looks were underrated at court due to his timid countenance. Yet what Gerard realized about him now is that his whole essence seemed to radiate through his features like a warm sun on a spring morning. He was the epitome of soulful, of kindness and gentleness. What he saw in Marianne was beyond Gerard.

They worked in silence for a while, organizing the buckets and setting up the baths in the rooms. Gerard showed Philippe the fascinating mechanism by which they employed a pump right in the house to pipe water through from the river underneath.

As they waited for the water to heat up, they stood in awkward silence. Philippe felt he ought to break it after a while.

"I know you're angry," he said softly.

"Angry is an understatement," he replied coldly.

"I know we have only just met but if you need to confide in someone, I am all ears."

Again, with that beckoning smile. Gerard blushed and looked away. Did he hear correctly? The Prince of France was offering him friendship and support. Why on earth would he do such a thing for someone he barely knew?!

However, this kind gesture made Gerard all the more conscious of the fact that he had no friends at the moment. A recollection that further fueled his dark desires. With no friends and no one to love, what was left, really?

Marianne hadn't looked at him once since they reunited. At first, he didn't blame her. He had felt guilty for leaving her behind; but now he just felt indignant. After all the years they had spent together and all the things he had done for her, she couldn't find it in herself to forgive him? Was his mother right after all? Was he only her servant?

Then there was Aramis. It seemed like forever since they shared that intimate moment with each other. Yet they both knew that nothing can truly come out of it. It was a dead-end, a culmination of lust and desire. A fantasy. They were friends, yes, but he wanted her to be happy and to find love, even if it was with Athos. If this meant that he kept his distance from her for a while, then he gladly imposed on himself to do so.

A strange shock went through his body as the Prince unexpectedly took his hand in his. Gerard only stared at him in astonishment.

"I may not have known my father," he began. There was so much sadness and defeat in Philippe's countenance, as the corners of his eyes drooped slightly and his mouth quivered. "But I do know what it's like to lose someone you loved dearly."

They stood so close to each other; Gerard held his breath for fear of offending the Prince if it turned out to be fowl. But he could feel his heart beat in an uncharacteristic fashion. Suddenly, his gaze went from Philippe's blue eyes to his lips. So soft, pink and supple… And… was it just him or was Philippe returning the intensity of his gaze, staring at _his_ lips? Was his hand trembling in his, indicating a certain anticipation? A certain… excitement?

Gerard felt the instinct to want to protect him from further sadness, to wrap his arms around him and comfort him. To…

Ah, but he wasn't that person any longer.

"With all due respect, Sire, I doubt you'd understand."

He dropped his hand and moved away, leaving a disappointed and trembling Philippe.

…

It was now almost noon. The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the rooms in the castle that previously appeared dark and forlorn. Alice de Villebois set herself to opening the shutters and some windows to allow the light in. Despite her falling out with her son, she felt something that she hadn't allowed herself to feel in many long years: hope.

Whether it was his dashing looks or his natural seductive charisma that could charm any woman of any age or disposition, Athos managed to win the trust and confidence of Alice. He shared their plan with her and she shared nuggets of information with him. He assured her of her security and she of her cooperation. She suggested a tour in the castle later on to show him old family relics and secret documents that she thought important and relevant. He thanked her and went on his way to help the others inspect the wing of the castle that no one ever uses.

Aside from fully unveiling all the nooks and crannies of this elaborate and longstanding plot, Athos had other motives. He wanted to know more about one man in particular – the defunct fiancé of the woman he loved. It did not escape his attention that Aramis was deep in thought since their reunion at Rochefort's. Nor was it beyond him the complete change in countenance: the melancholy in her eyes, the pursed lips, the tunneled gaze, the stiffness in her neck. It was as though a storm was brewing over her head and only she would be uprooted by its force.

Just exactly as it had been eight years ago. The quiet, reserved and high-strung boy who had joined the musketeers had returned. Except, things were different now, weren't they? Or at least he thought they were. He thought that after her identity was revealed and he confessed his love to her that they would live happily in bliss. No more secrets, no more hiding. Their beings would finally merge body and soul, just as it was always meant to be between them. Yes, they were soulmates. Aramis would unfold to him like a gorgeous spring flower. Body and soul. Soul and body. Body and… not soul, it would seem.

Aramis seemed to only want to confide in Porthos more than him. They shared stories – intimate stories and about him, no less!; they shared thoughts and feelings. On many occasions, he had seen them comforting each other for one reason or another. When they argued, it was Porthos she turned to. Porthos was the one who had the privilege of cuddling her whenever she needed a lift. Not him…

And then… oh God, and then, that _man_ dropped out of nowhere from the sky, almost instantly winning her trust and affections. Why him in particular? Oh, certainly he lacked nothing in terms of appearance. He was as handsome as the devil – beautiful, even. Still, there was something more to him. Some profound depth and a thorough acquaintance with suffering.

He had spent the entire time at the convention pretending to be interested in all its happenings but really, he was only buying himself time to think. Or rather, to ruminate; as was his habit. The same habit that drove him to a miserable abyss after the betrayal of his wife. The very same that took hold of him when he discovered Aramis' identity and shunned her away. He had felt angry and betrayed, ashamed at himself for being taken for a fool once again. And by a woman. A woman he loved, no less.

But truly, what had he expected? Capitaine de Treville was right. How could Aramis share her soul with someone like him, even if she had wanted to? She might love him, he had no doubt. But in all honesty, he was simply abominable. After the way he had treated her, with degrading rejection and humiliation, what did he expect? That she will fall into his arms without question? She might have forgiven him, he knew. But he had scarred her and himself in the process. He had damaged them. Not to mention that the way he had acted before they had left on their mission and throughout it was just…

He stopped in his tracks and exhaled deeply. _Well done, Athos_, he berated himself for the umpteenth time. _Truly, well done._

It was time to make amends, to heal the wound. To start over. Luckily the opportunity had just presented itself to him: it was time to go back to the very beginning. To the past. To an Aramis that he would have done anything to understand and bring out of the shadows all those years go.


	43. Between Us, Women

**Chapter 43: Between Us, Women**

Aramis ventured into a grand chamber. Her eyes widened with awe as the splendour of the room struck her. The generous light from the large windows bathed the room. Unlike the rest of the castle, the furniture here was luxurious. It also boasted decorations and expensive objects made of gold or silver.

On one wall, there was a fireplace flanked with bookshelves. The shelves were built into the wall and stretched from floor to ceiling. There were two velvet armchairs arranged opposite it, with a round table in between them sculpted out of marble and ornamented with gold.

Another wall bore paintings of beautiful landscapes that Aramis recognized from her trip to Bearn. There was also a tapestry hanging on the empty space of the wall, next to the bed. She gasped; she had seen this tapestry before, in the château of the Marquis de Montsorot. Perhaps it was a common style typical to the region?

All in all, the arrangement of everything in the room suggested a mix of elegance and practicality in the mind of whoever designed it. A woman, most likely, she thought. A vanity on the opposite corner of the room, facing one of the windows, confirmed her suspicion. Yes, a woman certainly lived here once. A woman of high birth, nobility and of exquisite taste and beauty.

She needn't look far to find her, for right there, above the bed was a portrait. It depicted a young couple. The woman was sitting upright in an armchair, while her husband stood to the right of her. They looked more like Cardinal and Queen rather than husband and wife. Although, from the haughty and intelligent face of the woman, Aramis had a feeling that _she_ would be the conniving Cardinal while her husband would be a happy-go-lucky sort of King.

Her beauty was like nothing Aramis had ever seen before. The face was long and proportionate, the jaws were defined and she had a straight nose with a slight upturn. The shape of her face, coupled with the rich brown hues of her hair, gave Aramis a troubling feeling of déjà vu.

She couldn't help but stare at her. Her skin was flawless like a marble statue. A statue, yes, for her expression was stoic, proud and her gaze cold and piercing. Her eyes were bewitching. They were of a deep azure, framed with thick black eyelashes. Aramis could feel the commanding gaze of the woman, following her as she moved, as if she was watching from beyond. Watching… and judging. The musketeer shuddered and turned her gaze to the man instead.

She instantly felt a sense of relief. He radiated with youthfulness. His expression was jovial. Altogether, he seemed like a charming and friendly fellow. In fact, if one were to stare hard at the painting, one could almost swear that there was a coy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As if he had planned an elaborate prank and was thinking of what a fun time it would be. In a way, his playfulness reminded her of Porthos.

She absently traced her fingers onto the wooden surfaces, admiring the elaborate engravings on the furniture. She was surprised to see that the whiteness of her gloves remained undisturbed. For a room that was rarely – if ever – used, it was surprisingly pristine and well-kept. She wondered why.

She also couldn't help but remark that the grand bed in the centre of the room was freshly made up, as if its inhabitants had quit it not too long ago with the promise to return to it later.

What a strange place and strange people!

Now that she was on the opposite side of the room, she looked through the window to see the river and hills of the peaceful French countryside. She almost wished they were not going to destroy the castle, just so she could preserve this magnificent room.

For a split second, she wondered whether she and Francois would have had a portrait of themselves above their marital bed. Or if their bedroom would have been as glamorous as this. Or if he would have had a library in it, where he would stay up reading as she fell asleep in the comfort of the knowledge that he was there. _Francois_… who _were_ you?

She attempted to distract herself from these thoughts by examining the contents of the vanity. Perfumes and scented oils, face paint and rouge, jewellery, hair accessories…Oh, how delightful! She could pretend, just for a moment, that she was a lady in a big house – in Francois' house, in _their _house, getting ready for a ball. Getting ready for her husband.

Where should she begin?

She sat in the vanity chair and examined her face in the looking glass. Her excitement, however, soon fled. She would need a hoard of imagination to convert herself into a lady. Her skin was lacklustre, there were dark circles under her eyes and her face was still scarred here and there. She frowned. The Marquise de Montsorot went back into her hiding place as quickly as she had come out.

Feeling defeated and silly, she rose to leave when she noticed a door right by the vanity. Carefully, she turned the knob and opened it.

It was a small dressing room. She spied a window and opened the shutters. As soon as the light illuminated the room, she gasped with wonder.

Dresses! Such beautiful exquisite dresses! As if possessed, Aramis hurriedly removed her gloves and began to ruffle through the wardrobe frantically, sighing and awing at each one, feeling the fabric in between her fingers and placing part of it on her forearm to imagine how this or that color might compliment her complexion. Oh, and there were dozens of shoes, boots, belts and gloves.

"_Oh, mon dieu_!" she exclaimed, with stars in her eyes.

She was so lost in her newly discovered treasure she didn't hear anyone come into the room. Nor had she noticed that her delirium was being the object of amusement for a good few minutes.

And so, our pretty musketeer was startled nearly half to death, jumping instinctively, and regretfully hitting her head on one of the shelves, almost falling over. Thankfully, she was caught by the giggly and amused Marianne de Dandurand, who helped the musketeer stabilize herself.

"Would you like to try one?" she offered, with a large and playful grin.

…..

* * *

"Ow, ow, ow!" the femme-musketeer groaned.

"Hold still," replied Marianne as she continued to rub her forehead with a cloth dipped in cold water. "Just a few more minutes so it won't bruise."

Aramis sighed. Her cheeks were flushed. Her insides burned with embarrassment. Musketeer indeed! One whiff from a perfume bottle and eight years of harsh training evaporate to leave behind a silly girl who cares for nothing but the shallow pursuits of vanity and material objects.

She wasn't sure what felt worse: the bruise on her head, or the fact that she had caved in to these feminine delights, or that she had been caught doing it or the manner in which she was caught. The red in her cheeks deepened as her shoulders sunk.

She stole a glance at the young woman tending to her. Certainly, she was terribly amused by all of this. In fact, her smile was infectious it made the musketeer chuckle softly at the whole situation. And before long, the two women burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

…

* * *

"I think this would suit you perfectly!" announced Marianne. She quickly hopped into the dressing room and came back out with a dress. It was made of a royal-blue velvet, with exquisite lace on the edge of the sleeves and shoulders. Along its length was embroidered golden swirly lines that met at the bottom of the skirt in a blossom of embroidered flowers.

Aramis gasped and stood up, taking the dress from Marianne and holding it to her body. It was heavy but delicate. Feminine yet assertive. Elegant yet practical. It didn't look like a dress that would hinder movement or restrict the sheer act of breathing. Her heart beat with excitement. Oh, she does want to try it! She wanted to be a woman, just for a minute. Yes, they were at the brink of an invasion but they had a bit of time, hadn't they?

She recoiled abruptly as she felt Marianne's fingers undoing her collar.

"What are you doing?" she almost shouted.

"Undressing you, of course, what did you think?" replied Marianne, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

Aramis put some distance between her and the other woman, who had an expression somewhere between indignation at the rejection and disappointment.

"I can take care of myself," Aramis said, sounding harsher than she had intended to.

….

* * *

"Pardon me," a voice called their attention to the doorway.

There was static in the air as Gerard de Villebois entered the room.

"Can I help?" came the disdainful reply of the Comtesse. Aramis marveled at just how quickly the mood of this young woman changed. On her part, she took a step back, not wanting to be caught in whatever it was that might explode between those two.

"I'm preparing the baths," he replied with equal disdain. "And I'm quite spent so I can only do three."

He paused, as a wry smile dessinated on his face.

"So, it looks like you two will have to share."

Then, turning to Aramis, he flashed her a devilish smiled and said, "And good luck to _you_!"

"_Espèce de…_!" Marianne shot.

But he had already left the room the closed the door, leaving the musketeer to be the sole audience and unfortunate recipient of a tantrum she had hoped would be directed at someone else.

…

* * *

"That monstrous BASTARD…_He_ was the one who had left. Why would HE pretend to be angry at ME?... All I ever did was to be his loyal friend!... _Espèce de cretin_!... Ungrateful imbecile of a boy!...He was content to leave me to a terrible fate… HONESTLY!"

She watched helpless for some time as the young Comtesse hurled her pent-up grievances, punctured and colored here and there with vulgarities that Aramis had only ever heard in the slummiest taverns in the country. Porthos' handiwork, no doubt. She must have coaxed him into giving her some lessons.

Aramis had never seen so much energy and force in a woman before. Not to mention the total lack of restraint. By the time she was finished, she had kicked and struck every surface in the room. Meanwhile, the musketeer had positioned herself by the vanity. To hell with everything else but she was adamant on protecting the perfumes and oils that had brought her a long-lost sensation of pleasure even for a few seconds. She looked on with pity at the expensive-looking pillows that Marianne thrashed to the floor and kept slamming repeatedly. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea to have used her for bait. She recalled Gerard's impression of Marianne, "scared" and "helpless". Damsel in distress indeed! The Iron Mask didn't know what awaited him.

* * *

The bath set-up was carried out peacefully. Marianne sulked in a corner, arms crossed over her chest. No, she did _not_ wish to see him and she did not want _anything_ from him. She will _not_ bathe. Not in a bath made by _him_. She would rather risk drowning in a river. _How sorry would he be then_!

When he had left, Aramis reluctantly quit her station by the vanity and went to feel the water.

Ah, how warm and wonderful! A sigh of pleasure escaped her, prompting the other woman to glance around, at the tantalizing tub.

_Stubborn, too,_ chuckled Aramis to herself as Marianne turned her head away with a renewed resolve. Ah, but the scent of the perfumes that the musketeer was infusing the water with was intoxicating!

Marianne would glance back to watch her blond companion bent over the tub, inhaling its loveliness with an expression of delicious anticipation on her face. Oh, how she longed for that herself! But no, she _must_ stay strong in her convictions. And right now, boycotting Gerard was front and center.

Aramis squinted her eyes at her. She was a tougher nut to crack than Porthos. When Porthos was in a fit, he would declare himself off food or drink. But it was always so easy to entice him back, despite his weak attempts at resisting so as to demonstrate his anger.

However…there _was_ one more thing she could try.

"I'll let you undress me," came the tempting offer.

….

* * *

Marianne carefully laid the doublet on the bed, as if it was a precious relic. In the meantime, the musketeer had taken off her boots and placed them on the floor next to her belt and weapons.

She untucked her chemise and raised her arms, allowing her companion to remove it. The latter, astonished by the bandages encircling Aramis' torso, crumpled the chemise and tossed it carelessly on the bed. Her conscientiousness, it seems, had limits.

"So, this is how you hide it!" she exclaimed, as she excitedly untied the knot and began to remove them.

Aramis smiled at her. Her innocence and sense of curiosity were heart-warming, she almost wanted to embrace her. The last time she had felt such a maternal instinct was with d'Artagnan, on the day he was attacked by Jussac.

Marianne stared at Aramis' breasts. They were so firm, perfectly round and her nipples were a sweet and delicate pink. She had the urge to touch them, to cup them in her hands and maybe give a squeeze or two.

Aramis blushed, feeling exposed and awkward.

"I have never seen another woman nude before," Marianne said, matter-of-factly.

The musketeer realized that, in fact, neither had she. Nor had she been truly nude in the presence of one. As an adolescent, she had help getting dressed by the maid, but it was always quick and utilitarian. She never had sisters with whom she shared clothes, a bed or a bath for that matter.

She never even had any confidantes. Other than Francois and, recently, Gerard. Her friends and life companions were Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. The only woman in her life, Constance, was ignorant about her true identity.

Without waiting for Marianne, she slid her pantaloons down and stood completely in the nude. She stood proud and she felt comfortable about it. How many days and nights had she spent alone? With no one for company but a desire for revenge and the ghost of a dead fiancé. How hard had she had to work to suppress who she was, to learn to be someone else, to articulate every minute gesture and hide every inch of herself? Despite the falling out when her identity was revealed, wasn't it a relief that everyone knew the truth now? Ah, but there were other things to deal with…

Yet, none of that mattered in this moment. She had never felt close to anyone in this way before. There was no past between her and this young woman. There was no trauma, no rejection. No need to hide.

As a response to her gesture, Marianne guided Aramis' hand to the laces of her dress and corset. It was an invitation.

As she worked to undo the corset, Aramis thought about the young woman she was undressing. Despite her condescending exterior, she now knew that it was only that: an exterior. Inside, Marianne was vulnerable. She was an emotional child who, abandoned by her parents, had never been truly loved. She was Renee without Francois. Even with Gerard by her side, Aramis knew that there were things in a woman's heart that were difficult to share or be understood except by another woman. Marianne must have been lonely, too. Her inventions were her salvation just as the sword had been to Aramis.

….

* * *

"Make some more room!" groaned Marianne, kicking at Aramis' leg.

The latter relaxed further into the tub, tilting her neck lower on the edge. Without bothering to open her eyes, she addressed her in a calm but commanding manner. "I'm not moving. Get used to it."

Marianne scoffed and resigned herself.

The two women sat in silence for some time, letting the water embrace them, washing away the dirt and stress from the last few weeks.

Eventually, Aramis sat up, positioned her legs on either side of her companion to give her more space to stretch out. Her hands dangled heavily on either side of the tub. Her eyes traveled along the figure of the Comtesse.

Unlike her body, Marianne's was the definition of femininity. Her breasts were generous and heavy. They heaved and jiggled with the slightest movement. Her waist was well-defined, forming a perfect shape of an hour-glass with her bust and hips. Her legs were strong and her thighs thick. Just the type for Porthos!

She didn't know why but she felt a sudden urge to be closer to this woman, to touch her, to nurture her. She reached out her fingers into the water and stroked her leg. In response, the latter moved lower into the water, purring with pleasure.

"You were a lady once, weren't you?" it was Marianne who broke the silence.

"Once," replied the musketeer, a faint smile on her lips. She continued to massage Marianne's legs.

"Why did you do it?"

"It's a long story."

"It must have been for a grave reason. I can't imagine why any woman chooses to become a musketeer otherwise."

Aramis smiled. _Never compassion without judgement in Marianne's world!_

"I mean to think of it all! To have to hide your body every day behind those ghastly bandages. Which I am sure are painful," at this, Marianne clutched her bosom and shuddered, "And to have to ensure that no one finds you out. To control every movement, every intonation."

"Well, you have kept your identity a secret too, haven't you?" Aramis interjected.

"Yes, but that is different. I live in isolation, not on the battleground and in the midst of a militaristic regiment! Right under the King's nose, no less!"

Aramis was now used to Marianne's outbursts of judgement wherein her whole body becomes animated. She splashed her hands in the water to articulate.

"Not to mention all the horrid physical training and riding those horses!" she made a cringing face.

Aramis burst out laughing. "It's really enjoyable if you try it! It makes you powerful and wielding a sword makes you feel invincible. It becomes a part of you. Like another limb."

Marianne appeared to contemplate.

Adopting Marianne's style, she continued, "There's the camaraderie, the friendship, the excitement, the adventure, the glory. Not to mention all the great fun with Athos and Porthos.

"And finally, there is nothing like the freedom it gives."

With that, she reclined her head back and took in a deep relaxing breath. Yes, there was nothing like the freedom it gives.

….

* * *

"Turn around," Marianne ordered her companion. Aramis obeyed but not without skepticism.

Marianne opened her legs on either side of Aramis, drawing her in closer to her. She gasped as felt the breasts of the other woman on her back. Then, to the musketeers' astonishment, Marianne wrapped her arms around her waist and rested her head on her back. She squeezed her tightly for a few blissful minutes that were so full of tenderness and affection it made Aramis almost cry.

She didn't really give it much thought – she just went for it. She had wanted to touch this strange and fascinating woman. To see what it felt like to be close to her. Perhaps some of her confidence and strength would somehow rub off on her. Perhaps, if one stood long enough in the light of those one admired, one can be transformed into them. And she did admire her. Marianne knew that any snarky remarks or condescending attitude she had exhibited towards the musketeer only stemmed from her own insecurity.

From that very first moment when Aramis saved her at the ball, Marianne had secretly hoped they would become friends. Unfortunately, Gerard's feelings for her complicated things. Not to mention that she turned out to be Porthos' closest friend. For a time, Marianne had accepted that the musketeer Aramis was someone to be admired and venerated from afar and any hopes she had had for a new friendship were dashed the moment she found Gerard's evidence in Aramis' chamber.

So how precious this moment was! To be able to be so close to her in such an intimate way. In many ways, Aramis reminded Marianne of everything she had heard about her mother: beautiful, strong, proud, intelligent, skillful, courageous to a fault. Like a heroine in a story. And right now, Marianne needed both: a mother and a heroine, so she clung to the musketeer as tightly as she could.

….

* * *

The conversation flowed easily after that. They took turns rubbing each other's backs. They traded stories of childhood, of misadventures and mishaps. When it came to the friendships to the men in their lives, the conversation took a sour turn. Nonetheless, it quickly became a healing ground when the two women listened to each other, gave encouraging remarks or became indignant on behalf of the other.

Aramis found herself opening up about Athos and unburdening all her lingering frustrations. Marianne's impartiality made it easy to talk, compared to Porthos. She went on and on at length while the two dried themselves and each other with clean towels. It was the perfect opportunity to explore each other's bodies and compare notes on their appearances or bodily functions.

…

Now fully dressed in that splendid blue dress, the musketeer sat at the vanity table once more. She closed her eyes and purred while Marianne brushed her hair.

The latter finally worked up the courage to ask the question she had been burning to ask for so long:

"What's it like… to make love with a man?"

Caught by surprise, Aramis blushed.

"I've kissed many men, you know," she hurriedly added, in an attempt to convince her companion that she was not all that innocent.

"Well, _I_ haven't kissed many," replied Aramis, chuckling.

"Did you ever kiss Porthos?"

Aramis broke out in laughter. Marianne's juvenile questions amused her beyond measure, but one glance at her companion's face showed her that she was not actually joking.

Aramis put on the straightest face she possibly could and declared, "I solemnly swear to you on the musketeers' honors that I have never kissed Porthos nor anything of a romantic nature has transpired between us."

Marianne smiled smugly, just the confession she wanted!

Aramis took this opportunity to tease her, "But maybe you should ask Porthos what it would be like to make love to a man. I'm sure you'll even get a demonstration."

Marianne playfully punched Aramis, giggling and blushing.

The musketeer turned to her, this time in a serious tone, "but just to avoid any…unwanted consequences, make sure to ask him not to finish while he's ins…"

She was cut short by a wide-eyed and scandalized Marianne, "Yes, I know, thank you. I grew up with Gerard, remember? I know all about men's machinery."

_Undoubtedly,_ thought Aramis. Ironically, even _she _knew more about men's bodies that she did her own.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Marianne resumed.

"Does it hurt?"

She smiled, feeling that maternal instinct again.

"Not if you're aroused enough."

"How will I know?"

"You'll know. It's a hard feeling to miss." Aramis winked. _Besides, I'm sure Porthos has enough experience and I'm sure he will be gentle_, she added herself. They made for an exciting couple. Marianne, so young and full of life and curiosity; Porthos full of joy and experience. They had so much in common and so much to teach each other. Their love was young, pure, innocent and hopefully, happy.

Just like Renee and François.

Francois...

Even after all of this distraction, thoughts of him clouded her once more.

Seeing the sad look in her eyes, Marianne softly ventured, "Was there someone else before Athos?"

"Once."

"What happened?"

"He was killed," her voice was barely audible. Marianne stopped brushing abruptly.

"So, this is why you became a musketeer…"

Aramis nodded and closed her eyes, as if politely declining any further conversation. Marianne understood.

They were silent for the remainder of the time. Marianne was lost in a new fantasy about Porthos, while Aramis simply enjoyed the gentle massage of the hairbrush.

"There!" announced Marianne when she finished. "We can now go present you and watch Athos regret the day he ever said anything mean to you!"

Aramis laughed. "And what about you? Shouldn't we make Porthos rue the day he was mean to you?"

Marianne grinned with mischief, "I have just the thing!"


	44. Between Us, Men

Chapter 44: Between Us, Men

The two musketeers descended the stairs leading to the main hall.

The heavier musketeer sighed with contentment. After the tumultuous events of the past few weeks, there was nothing like a hot bath to dissolve one's exhaustion. That is, nothing except food and alcohol, which he dearly longed for.

"Marianne tells me there's a large cellar filled with the most exquisite wine here," he mentioned to his companion. He was happy to see that his friend also appeared - if one can ever describe the musketeer Athos in this manner - relaxed.

Athos chuckled and threw Porthos a side glance with a mocking eyebrow.

"So, you're on first-name basis again?" he teased.

"Alas, no…" Porthos sighed.

Having come out of their rooms, the two musketeers were informed by Philippe that the ladies were sequestered in each other's company and do not wish to be disturbed for some time. He then excused himself citing chores he needed to attend to, thus leaving in his trail two very confused and astonished musketeers. First at the fact that the Prince of France was engaging himself voluntarily – and cheerfully, it seemed – in menial household tasks; second at the fact that the two women in their lives were spending time together.

And so, with not much to do until lunch was announced, the two decided to go into the drawing room and have a rest. Things might be well and calm for the moment but they both had enough experience to know that this was only the calm before the storm. God knows, they will need all the energy they could get when the invasion happens.

Treville was set to speak with Rochefort within two days after their departure to give them enough time to prepare. Whoever the spy was in Rochefort's household will have no doubt relayed the information in the next day or so. They needed to be ready, for the Iron Mask will not spare any effort this time. Athos was certain of that. After all, it wasn't just the inventor's assistant he was after. It was an opportunity to seek revenge against those who foiled his plot the first time around. It was only unfortunate that d'Artagnan could not be present for this occasion.

…

The large musketeer reclined onto the bigger sofa, opposite his comrade. He rolled over to his side, propping himself up on his elbow.

"So," he began, "you and Aramis have been talking again?"

He needed reassurance that all was indeed well and good between them three. He couldn't handle anymore arguments or rifts.

With his eyes closed, Athos only nodded. Porthos scoffed to himself and shook his head. Classic Athos. One can never get a word from him. Things have to pried out of him like pulling teeth! But if there was anyone who could pry into Athos' inner workings, it was Porthos. He always managed to wear out his comrade with his incessant questioning and teasing.

"So, what… has she told you…exactly?" he probed, attempting to sound casual. Yet, the anxiety he's had over Aramis' affair betrayed itself in an unusually high-pitched tone.

Athos opened his eyes and looked directly at his friend. His commanding gaze always made Porthos feel like a child, about to receive an admonishment from his father. He swallowed.

There was a long moment of silence before Athos spoke.

"If you're talking about de Villebois, then yes, I learned about that. Not from her. At least not yet. But I did learn."

_Oh, dear God, he knew…_

Porthos began to panic, unable to find anything to say.

He didn't need to, however.

"Of course, she's told _you_," Athos continued. "You have barely been back for a moment and she had already told you…"

He sounded bitter. But those who knew him well could also remark the hint of sadness in his voice.

"Well, are you… are you going to… you know?"

"What?"

"You know!" Porthos made a gesture of throat-slitting.

"What are you talking about?" Athos scrutinized him, becoming annoyed with these inexplicable allusions.

"Gerard!" Porthos finally hissed, "Are you going to kill him?"

"Kill him?! What, no! Of course not."

Porthos let out a huge sigh of relief and plopped on his back.

_How dramatic_, Athos thought to himself, rolling his eyes.

"So… you're not… angry, then?"

"Well, I'm not exactly happy about it," he shot at his friend. The with a defeated tone, "But if she's happy…evidently, she prefers the company of another man."

Porthos jolted upright.

"Don't be ridiculous! You two are meant for each other!"

"As you can see, _mon ami_, she does not talk to me. She does not confide in me. She confides in everyone else _except_ for me. She comes to _you_ first before me. It's as if she doesn't… trust me." Then he added sourly, "I am nothing more than her comrade-in-arms and partner in bed."

Porthos twirled his thumbs, hesitating to say something that might offend his friend. Nevertheless, someone had to.

"I'm certain that that's not true. But you don't make it easy either…"

"I know…" Athos admitted.

"Look Athos, this is a dangerous mission. If we were all to die, would you never want to tell her how you really feel? To put things right with her once and for all?"

"Of course, I do. I just seem to only bring her misery…"

"Also, happiness…" Porthos offered. Whether Athos did not hear him or chose to ignore it was debatable.

"Anyway," Athos attempted to change the subject. "What about the Comtesse?"

Porthos sighed for the umpteenth time.

"You've been doing that a lot every time someone mentions her."

"Only because it is completely over. Finished. Done with."

"Is it?" Athos chuckled to himself, knowing full well that his friend was being delusional.

"There is no chance in hell she would ever forgive me. I behaved beyond abominably. _I _wouldn't forgive _me_. She deserves a lot better."

"Always theatrical, Porthos," Athos joked. The latter only shook his head and sighed again.

"I'm certain she will come around. You will just have to… use the right words, this time," advised his senior.

Porthos turned on his side again.

"So… you think she still has feelings for me?"

Athos smiled. "Undoubtedly. Who could resist _you_, my friend?"

…

After about an hour, Porthos woke up to a violent growl that came from his stomach. The noise echoed throughout the room, startling Athos out of his own slumber. His own stomach was as equally famished but perhaps not as vocal as that of his comrade's.

"When do you think we'll eat?" Porthos whined.

"Probably when the Comtesse and Aramis grace us with their presence," replied the other with his usual sarcasm.

Porthos grimaced. "What's taking so long, anyway?"

Athos shrugged.

A smirk suddenly dessinated on Porthos' face.

"Do they think they're nude together?" he turned to his comrade, flashing his eyebrows suggestively.

"Don't be distasteful, Porthos," he scolded him.

But there was no denying it, the idea had certainly crossed his mind. It always a mystery to men, what women did behind closed doors when they were together. There was certainly a high level of intimacy that formed between them that men could never have with each other. However, what _really_ happens in that sacred space of feminine exclusivity was always left up to the imagination.

Athos couldn't help but wonder what their conversation would sound like. Were they talking about him? He felt his neck getting hot with embarrassment. No doubt Aramis had many grievances against him that she could dish out to Marianne. He could even hear the slanders the young Comtesse would utter against him. What a dangerous thing it was, when women formed alliances with each other.

"Hmm…" Porthos licked his lips.

Athos grimaced at him. "While I cannot stop you from picturing your beloved in that regard, could I entreat you to stop imagining Aramis nude?"

"Very well," Porthos conceded. Then, rolling on his side, he continued in the same lewd manner: "Although, if you must know, I wouldn't mind sharing Marianne with another woman or two!"

"Unsurprisingly," Athos chuckled. "Nevertheless, I doubt _she_ is the type to share."

"Oh, but she doesn't need to share at all! I am quite happy simply… observing."

Athos rolled his eyes. Porthos always knew to find loopholes to this sort of thing. Yet he had a feeling that this kind of behaviour will land his friend in a potentially fatal minefield of this already-tumultuous relationship.

"Do take care that you don't shock her to a point of revulsion with these ideas of yours," cautioned Athos.

The Comtesse de Dandurand was unlike any of the women who would normally take a musketeer to her bed. She was simply not acquainted with these kinds of liaisons. The casual kind. She was difficult and entitled. She was also uncompromising, which is an attribute that Athos had come to respect in her.

Unfortunately, when it came to matters of the heart, this quality served her ill. Her coldness and reluctance to engage her emotions and show her vulnerability were a great hindrance to any real connection. Especially a connection with someone who was as warm and affectionate as Porthos.

"Do you think she will find me vulgar? Common?" the voice of his friend tore him away from his thoughts.

Athos smiled to himself. While he was analyzing his friend's relationship from all angles, Porthos was preoccupied with something else entirely: his perpetual insecurity about his status. Marianne was a noble. He was not.

"Vulgar, perhaps," teased Athos. "But I would argue that she will turn out to be more vulgar. People like her tend to be secretly… perverted."

Porthos grinned. A perversion he would like to explore indeed!

"And you are anything but common, my friend."

Porthos smiled, reassured. The two men went silent for some time until Porthos spoke again. This time, without his usual lightheartedness.

"Athos?"

"Hmm?"

"Will Marianne lose everything if we do this? If we destroy the castle?"

Athos exhaled. He was hoping to avoid this grim conversation.

"Not everything. She has fortune that is not tied to the estate. She can use it to rebuild."

Porthos scoffed, "That sounds rather costly."

"It is. She can rebuild a much smaller manor and keep the estate," he informed him. "But it probably won't last long."

He glanced over at his friend, who was staring up at the ceiling.

"Why do you ask? Does her loss of fortune make her less appealing to you?" he probed.

The large musketeer shook his head. His brows were knitted in an expression that Athos had never remarked in his friend before: worry.

With a thick voice, Porthos posed the question that had been burning in his mind since the moment Marianne offered her home for this mission.

"But then what will she do? How will she live?"

"Well, she might have to find work," Athos replied. _Or a rich husband_, he thought, but decided against mentioning it out loud. Although he suspected that his friend may have come to that conclusion himself. No need to rub salt in the wound.

"Work as what? A servant?"

"Certainly not in prostitution," Athos jested.

The former shot him a glare. "It's not a laughing matter, Athos."

The occasions when the grand musketeer reproached the older one were rare.

Athos felt ashamed. "Forgive me, you're right."

He looked on at his friend who seemed defeated. He sat up and stretched over to pat his arm.

"Cheer up, Porthos," he consoled him, "It might not be so terrible. She seems to take a natural liking to working. She has done it her whole life in working for her uncle. Moreover, she's not a stranger to household chores, seeing as how she grew up without servants at her call and beckon. You give her little credit."

"She likes it, sure enough," Porthos admitted. Nevertheless, he had gotten to know the young woman well in the last while. Marianne may not care for titles or a life of celebrity at court, but she enjoyed the little pleasures in life that only a certain degree of wealth could afford: decadent food, good and clean dress, feminine delights. She longed to travel and spend time in foreign places. She loved her possessions dearly as well.

"But she likes it within the confines of this place. Within the protection of its walls. Having food to eat on the table whenever she wishes. You and I both know that out in the real world, it's a different story."

He was right. Athos himself had never lacked much in his life. He had forsaken his own estate out of his own will. However, it always remained an option to him at any time he wished to return to it. If anyone knew what life in poverty was like, it was Porthos. Athos could not argue with that.

"Do you think Rochefort is still keen?" Porthos joked bitterly.

"Come now, don't exaggerate. It has not come to that."

"It will. Either she loses her life or she loses everything. In the end, she loses."

"She has _you_, doesn't she?"

Porthos shook his head. A lump was forming in his throat.

"I can't, Athos… I can't make a poor soldier's wife out of her."

Athos watched as the giant's body seized as he struggled to suppress his sobs. He cleared his throat several times, attempting to control himself.

Then dabbing at the corners of his eyes and sniffling he said in a low voice.

"The honorable thing to do would be to find her a wealthy husband, there is no other way. And preferably not Rochefort," he added.

Athos took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. It seemed that every time they thought they had found the solution to a problem, another one came up. It was almost impossible to win.

_Unless…_

"You might have just given me an idea. Let me sleep on it some more."

….

His eyes opened with difficulty. He could have slept even more but sounds of clattering and people speaking pulled him from the depths of his consciousness back into reality.

The grand figure of his friend slowly materialized above him. When his eyes adjusted to the finer details, he remarked a deviant smirk on the young musketeer's face. What was so funny?!

Then, he felt it. His member had been throbbing the whole time as the contents of his dream slowly made their way to the front of his mind. He groaned; instinct compelled him to cup his vulnerable member, mainly out of embarrassment. So _that's_ what Porthos was smiling about. Good God, yes, _these_ things never escaped him.

"Dreaming about Aramis, I gather?"

"Mmm…" he admitted, still half-asleep, pulling himself up into a seated position and rubbing the top of his head.

"Well, you seemed to be having a time of it. Perhaps it wasn't just you two?" Porthos winked, referring to their conversation earlier.

"Perhaps." There was no discouraging Porthos from his incessant questions. But one can try to deter him.

Suddenly his friend's countenance changed into a threatening glance. "It'd better not be Marianne, Athos."

"Do calm yourself. Far from it."

Yes, far from it. But not entirely. Curse that valet of hers! As if it wasn't enough that he seduced the love of his life. No, he trots around on his high moral ground with his perpetual attitude of martyrdom that no one can approach him on no matter what. And by the devil he does trot. Why shouldn't he? He was as beautiful as a mythical elven genie. Elusive, nimble, ethereal. Seductive… Even _he_ was charmed by him! He had been so taken and impressed by him in their duel that he couldn't do the thing he would have done if it had been someone else who had seduced his Aramis.

No, instead, he took him under his wing. He _helped_ him. He even felt comfortable enough to open up to him. As if they had been friends for years. _"I want to marry her_," he had confessed to him. He had never even admitted it out loud to himself before, let alone in front of anyone else. _Sorcerer, curse him!_

As if all of that wasn't enough. He had to intrude on his dreams now. He could still hear the moaning, the grunts. Feel the sweat and taste the fluids. Hers and _his_. He could feel himself pulsating as the three of them alternated in giving each other pleasure. Together. _At the same time_.***

"Athos?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you coming or what? The table has been laid and Philippe stopped by to say that we were requested to wait for the ladies at the foot of the stairs. Something about a grand surprise."

"Yes I'm… I'm coming."

…..

The chatter of the four men quieted down as Marianne came traipsing down the stairs. She was utterly gleeful, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. Porthos could feel his heart drop to the floor upon seeing how radiant and joyful she was. All he wanted was for her to leap into the air like a butterfly, and for his arms to be the loving net that would catch her. He would twirl her all around this room and every room in this castle. He wanted to bathe himself in her light, drown himself in her scent and be charmed by the sound of her giggles and laughter.

As she seized her movements and stood on the landing, the onlookers were struck by what they saw.

Gone were the ribbons in her hair and the careless updo. Gone was the pastel-colored dress that made her look like she had just stepped out of the schoolroom. Gone was the white lace that was so common among unmarried young women. Gone were the boots she used to hide under her dress. Gone was that aura of childlike innocence and naivety.

The girl was gone.

There was instead, a woman in her place.

A Comtesse

Her hair came cascading down in elaborate voluminous waves all the way to her lower back. Two thin braids extended from her ears and were tied at the back, accentuating her jaw and the contours of her face. Its auburn hues appeared more uniform, darker and more pronounced. Evidently, as a result of extensive brushing, coiffing and the application of expensive oils. Small diamonds decorated her braids.

She wore a dress of a velvet green with a silken skirt. It brought out the curves of her figure like nothing Porthos had seen before. Not even when she was half nude at the lakeshore. This was a whole other level of glamour, of seduction.

Finally, the diamonds on her neck and those sewn into her dress made her positively sparkle. She was like a mythical forest nymph who had just escaped the spirit realm and made its way here. To this place. To _him_.

Were it not for the presence of Prince Philippe, Porthos would have whistled at her like a vulgar peasant. He bit his lip, suddenly conscious of the stupid gawking expression on his face. Even Athos was taken aback by this stark transformation. He couldn't help but envy his friend the size of her bust. Admittedly, his eyes rested there for some time before Porthos nudged him and threw him a glare.

Nevertheless, it would appear that Marianne was only the appetizer. After having trotted down the stairs and made sure she harvested the admiration of her onlookers, she announced.

"Gentlemen, we have a special guest who will be joining us for dinner. Allow me to present the Lady" – here Marianne paused as she realized that she didn't know Aramis' real name – "err, the Lady… Aramis."

….

If Marianne was a dream, Aramis was a goddess. The four men were stupefied. They had never seen her beauty shine like this before. Everything about her was emphasized: her hair appeared more golden than ever, her eyes a deeper clearer azure. Her hair was swept to the side and held together in half a braid that unfolded into generous voluminous waves of gold. The dress showcased her tall and grand figure, while accentuating her fine waist. Her shoulders and décolletage were bare, revealing two delicious curves like perfectly round oranges waiting to be squeezed. And just like Marianne, she also sparkled with jewels on her dress and on her person.

Athos' jaw dropped to the floor. He was sure he had been granted a glimpse at Heaven.

On his part, all Gerard wanted to do was to throw himself her feet. Her beauty filled him with so much warmth and lovem all he wanted to do was offer himself to her in whatever she wished. She was his queen and him, her loyal most loving subject.

"_OH, MON DIEU!_" a cry from the corner of the room startled everyone, breaking the spell they were under.

Marianne's eyes widened with panic. She had completely forgotten! They weren't alone. She hadn't calculated this thoroughly.

Alice de Villebois was as struck as the rest of them by the vision of Aramis.

Everyone was frozen in place, each trying to think of what to say, of how to explain why the musketeer Aramis was in a _dress_. They watched helplessly as Alice de Villebois made her way over to the femme-musketeer.

"Madame," she addressed the young belle before her as she bowed. "I have never seen a woman so stunning for years."

Marianne was slightly hurt by this. She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. In everyone's eyes, she could never measure up to her mother.

"Please don't be alarmed on my account." Then, lowering her voice so that only the two young women could hear, "You are not the first woman I have met to penetrate the court in disguise." She winked at her and left the room.

Aramis gave Marianne a questioning glance, to which the latter shrugged and mouthed, "No idea."

…..

*** to see an expansion of this idea, I encourage you to read Joelle-sama's wonderful story "Une Experimentation".( s/13571161/1/Une-exp%C3%A9rimentation-2) I was honored that she wrote it as a pastiche to the main plot. We will add more chapters to it in the near future as a collaboration.


	45. Lovers' Quarrel

**Chapter 45: Lovers' Quarrel**

Philippe cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "I have decided to be your host this afternoon, with permission from the lady of the house of course. I will also be your server."

His announcement was met with raised eyebrows and murmurs. Gerard almost laughed aloud. The Prince of France, serving a luncheon. Well now he's seen it all.

"While we do find ourselves in extraordinary circumstances, I thought we might enjoy ourselves a little and pretend we were at the eve of a celebration," he continued. "And in keeping with some traditions, I thought perhaps the men would like to escort the women to the dining room?"

His smile betrayed a faint hint of mischief. _Ah, this fox was cunning_, Gerard thought to himself. He was playing the matchmaker. Or, rather, the match-fixer. But why would Philippe willingly offer the woman he loved to another man? Could it really only be friendship that the Prince harbored towards his old friend? Had he been mistaken all along? Yet he saw him kiss her at the tavern. An uninspired kiss, albeit, but a kiss nonetheless. But then… what was all that talk earlier of friendship and lending him a shoulder to cry on? _To cry on_! To cry would be to be intimate with someone. Was it… an invitation? Furthermore, why did he feel electrified when the Prince touched him? In the way he looked at him?

He was so lost in his thoughts and in gazing absentmindedly at the Prince he did not hear his name being called several times. He was startled out of his reverie by a nudge from Porthos. He flushed a deep red as he perceived the five people in the room staring at him.

"Philippe was wondering if you would help him in the kitchen," Porthos whispered in his ear, to bring him up to speed with minimal embarrassment.

"C-certainly," he stammered. Philippe smiled at the group and followed Gerard, making sure to keep a certain distance behind to admire the view. Yes, as cunning as they come, he smiled to himself.

….

"Was it just me, or was there a charged air between those two?" Porthos pointed his thumb to the direction the two men had gone.

Aramis looked away while Athos shot him a dark look. Neither one of them wanted to discuss Gerard de Villebois, let alone his romantic pursuits. Marianne covered her mouth to hide her giggle.

Encouraged by her reaction, Porthos approached the young woman with a show of humility.

"May I?" he offered her his arm.

Despite all the tension and unpleasantness between them, Marianne was too excited in her pretend role as a great lady and in being the centre of attention, she could hardly refuse. She nodded enthusiastically.

She was about to take his arm when he withdrew at the last second, leaving her confused.

"Do you know, I've got a better idea," he grinned.

"What…OH!" she squealed out loud, as with one fell swoop, he hoisted her into the air and scooped her up in his arms. Instinctively, she interlaced her hands behind his neck as he proceeded to carry her to the dining room.

"I've been longing to do that, you see," he beamed at her. She pleaded with him amidst fits of laughter to put her down but everyone knew she was only pretending. In reality, Marianne did not want to be put down. She relished his attention and the security and warmth she found in his strong arms. For tonight, she was a princess. _His_ princess.

….

The two remaining musketeers watched with great amusement as the enamoured couple disappeared into a doorway, the squeals and laughter of Marianne trailing behind them.

"Well?" Athos cocked his head suggestively and flashed the young woman a boyish grin.

"Don't even think about it, Athos," she warned him.

He chuckled. Alas, he already knew that it will take a great deal more than a flirtatious smile to win back this glorious lioness before him. Thankfully, he had come prepared.

Just as one would approach a wild animal, Athos advanced slowly towards her, closing the gap between them. He could see her neck stiffen as her chin lifted into the air. She was watching him closely from the corner of her eyes.

They now stood only a couple of inches apart. Her gaze was still glacial, cautious. Nonetheless, she didn't recoil. Instead, she stood firm in her place. No, she will not let him see that his presence troubled her. Ah, if only she could quiet the loud beating of her heart, the acceleration of her breath and consequently the up-and-down movement of her chest and the flush of her skin. She felt hot under his intense gaze. What was he going to do?

How divine she was! How he longed to touch her, to kiss her, to unite himself with her once and for all. Life without her was torture but it was all the more torture when she was just within his reach yet unattainable. Every part of him wanted to relinquish control, to give way to the violence of his passion and the fire of his love. Ah, but he had to be careful, he had to calculate every move. This was his last and only chance if he ever hoped to revive their flame.

She shivered as the tips of his fingers touched her back while he leaned in and whispered, "You look… absolutely beautiful… ravishing…"

She struggled to suppress a coy smile, to remain impassible and frigid.

But they both knew she was savoring her victory, gloating over the effect she exercised on him. She _owned_ him.

He took a step back and bowed to her.

"My lady, I am your humble servant."

_Heavens!_ Her eyebrows flew up in surprise. What coquetry! The last time she had seen this version of Athos was at a ball, attempting to seduce the Duchess of this or the Comtesse of that. With success, one might add. She scoffed to herself: feminine dress and glamour, it seemed, were not to be underestimated.

"Are you, now?" she mocked. _Very well, Athos. Two can play this game._

It was a challenge that he was ready to rise up for. Ah, but he will not show her the true degree of the effect she had on him. And yet… those lips! So pink, so soft, so subtly parted in a way that was so… beckoning. And those eyes! Those clear blue eyes in which he could lose himself for hours, now half-closed under the weight of her seductive gaze.

"I am," he answered her with a sultry voice. "Command me as you please."

Her knees weakened at that statement, so heavy and impregnated with all sorts of obscene allusions.

_Command me as you please. _

Oh, she certainly had a few ideas!

_Compose yourself, Aramis! Curse this dress and curse you, Athos, argh!_

But it was too late.

Her eyes had betrayed her desire, which the musketeer took as his cue. He pulled her waist to his, lifted her chin to him and pressed his lips onto hers. Every cell in his body rejoiced, the blood ran hot in all his veins and he was losing control over his faculty.

She let out a soft moan, as he had taken her by surprise. He perceived it as further encouragement, so he pulled her to him more firmly and forced a passage for his tongue through her lips.

It took every ounce of self-control she could muster. Aramis will not yield to these silly meaningless games. She was not his plaything. What, was she expected to forgive and forget if he kissed her? Why does he always get to define the terms and conditions? And she, she would somehow always give in to him. Because she loved him, _n'est-ce pas_? We compromise for the ones we love, don't we?

Fortunately, she had recently learned from Marianne that compromise was not always the best course of action.

Hence, grabbing onto whatever dignity she could find in herself, she pushed him away and delivered a slap to his face that resounded throughout the hall.

"You presume too much," she let the words drop like icicles before she picked up her skirt and began to walk away.

_For the love of God_! How can he possibly keep misreading these situations? Whatever happened to his own composure? His plan was wrecked.

In his panic to fix the situation, he grabbed her arm to stop her.

"Aramis, please," his eyes pleaded with her. "At least let me escort you."

Exasperated, she threw her arms up in the air and shot at him, "What are you trying to prove, Athos?

"I love you, Aramis…" he began.

She cut him off and shook her head. "And I love _you_," she said matter-of-factly.

A hint of hope illuminated his being. All was not lost!

"But," she continued, dashing this hope, "We keep going in circles, you and I. And nothing's changed."

"You're wrong!" his voice sounded desperate. "A great deal has changed. _I_ have changed!"

She regarded him with trepidation. It looked like she was about to say something but then changed her mind. He could tell she was wrestling with herself. Unfortunately, the part that was against him had won.

"Well, I just don't see it."

With that, she turned and walked away.

No, no, no! Everything was falling apart! The elaborate speech he had planned deserted him. He could no longer think straight. He had to act and act now. This was his last chance.

"MARRY ME!" he yelled.

It was as if someone had taken a musket and shot her with a bullet. She turned around, bewildered and stunned. Her eyes were wide open to the point that the light in the room made them look almost transparent.

They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He bit his lip, not daring to make another move.

Her heels clicked loudly on the tiles as she walked slowly towards him. He couldn't read her. There was so much in her face it was difficult to know what she was thinking. Yet he could take comfort in the fact that she was at least coming _towards_ him and not _away_ from him. Couldn't he?

Alas…

SLAP!

He retreated a few steps, almost losing balance. That one hurt. A lot. Evidently, she had injected it with all her strength.

With his hand on his face, he rose up to be met by what could only be described as hell's wrath incarnated in the form of man. Or, rather, woman, in this case.

_The devil_! He thought to himself.

"HOW DARE YOU?!" she shouted at him.

Then it began. The attack he should have anticipated.

She lashed at him, throwing punches and even attempting to kick in that dress, which, unfortunately for him, proved effective. He could only do his best to dodge her and defend himself.

"I gave my life to you and Porthos for _years_! I gave you both everything I could possibly give. I bore my burden by myself to protect _you_ and the regiment. And then when the moment came and I needed you most, you DESERTED ME! You rejected me and humiliated me in a manner not even fit for a nameless whore! You left me to my fate. You _left_ me in danger. You LEFT!"

She spat out the last word like a ball of nasty phlegm.

The guilt washed over him, making him lose ground for a split second. Yet that split second was enough for her fist to land in his face. He fell to the floor.

….

The chair squeaked as Marianne turned her head to glance towards the hall.

"Are you sure we shouldn't go to them?" she asked for the fifth time, the worry in her tone rising with each time she posed the question.

"Yes, yes don't worry!" the grand musketeer replied. "As I said, they're just… talking."

"But it sounds rather violent," she countered.

"Nonsense!" he said cheerfully. "Here, have a glass of this wine that Philippe fished out of the cellar."

"But…"

He poured her a glass.

"Shouldn't we at least wait for the others?"

He shoved the glass into her hand.

"Bah!"

….

She towered over him, heaving up and down with all the pent-up rage and frustration she had been carrying.

"_I_ would never have left _you_."

"Aramis…" the tears welled up in his eyes, as he struggled to his feet.

"And now, after everything, after you insulted me and insulted the memory of the man I loved, you have the AUDACITY to talk of marriage? Why stoop your pride to ask for forgiveness when you can simply bypass that unimportant notion? Because I'm just a silly girl who will forget everything and fall into your arms at the mention of a proposal, _n'est-ce pas_? And so you continue to insult me under the false guise of proclaimed love."

Before he could straighten up, she was at his throat with lightening speed. She grabbed him from the collar and pushed him to the nearest wall.

"I accepted to be your mistress because I loved you. And because I was considerate of your complicated past. Poor Athos, his wife had betrayed him so he couldn't bring himself to be with another woman again. But YOU were never considerate of MINE. Nor of me, nor of Porthos."

The tears flowed unimpeded down her cheeks. His Aramis was in pain. She was suffering and it was because of him.

"And yes," she hissed in a thick voice, "I won't lie and say that I do not wish sometimes that it was Francois by my side and not you."

He closed his eyes, letting the sharpness of these last words sink into his flesh like an executioner's sword.

He gently placed his hands on hers. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to atone for, so much he wanted to…

"Mmm!" His thoughts were muted as she gripped at his collar and pulled him to her violently. She placated her lips onto his, her tongue moving aggressively and desperately in his mouth. His body couldn't help but respond to this passionate and inexplicable savagery.

Then, when it appeared that she was finished asserting her dominance over him and discharging the remainder of her fury, she released him with a loud grunt.

"As I'm sure you have guessed already, I did take Gerard de Villebois to my bed and I hold no ounce of guilt nor regret about that. He showed me kindness, generosity and love that was unconditional on who I was."

Athos took a deep breath and straightened his clothes.

"I don't care if you love someone else. I will spend every waking moment of my life to ensure your happiness. To earn your trust once more and with time, your forgiveness for all the charges you have just laid out against me. Of which I am sure there is still more you haven't said. You make me a better person, Aramis. No matter what you say or do to me, I will never give up on you."

There, at least he managed _some_ part of his speech. She appeared calmer, more appeased. Maybe, just maybe he was able to get through to her. But she only sighed and walked away.

Maybe not.

…

He heard the sound of her footsteps falter. She faced him again with her hand on her hip and an icy gaze. She tapped her foot relentlessly on the floor and shot him a questioning glance.

"Well?"

He stared back at her with dumb confusion.

"What are you waiting for? I thought you were my humble servant. Are you going to escort me or should I escort myself?"

Athos was a man of strategy. He knew how to concoct elaborate plans and follow them to the T. He also knew how to recognize opportunities and when to take them. She did not need to repeat herself. He rushed to her side, bowed and offered her his arm.

His heart leapt with joy as she took it.

As they walked through the door, they both felt lighter and more at ease with themselves and each other. The resentment that had grown between them was finally verbalized, defined, disseminated. A big portion of the grime that accumulated in the river between the shores of their souls was removed; the water was cleaner and flowed more freely. Just like before. Just like it should. Certainly, there was still more work to be done but for now, this was a breakthrough. There was communication.

"And since you're my servant," she added, "My boots could use a good shining, if you're so inclined. You know I would hate to show up underdressed for a fight. Especially with the Iron Mask."

Athos smiled. "You are indeed the very soul of elegance, my queen."

"Don't be coy with me, Athos. I'm not a silly courtesan you can flatter your way into."

"I will attend to your boots after we eat," he responded. "Anything else?"


	46. Exes

**_Chapter 46: Exes_**

_The sun rays penetrated through the woodlands, warming up patches of the earth here and there. It had been an especially long and cold winter in this region of France, where the County of Dandurand and that of Rameau existed side-by-side for centuries, separated only by a thinning river. The arrival of spring that year provided great relief with the promise of a new and better beginning. The farmers returned to their lands with raised spirits and the nobility busied themselves with extravagant jubilant celebrations._

_Maxim de Rameau walked arm in arm with his latest belle - a young woman of a voluptuous figure, a proud stance and an eccentric hue of mahogany hair that turned different shades under the sun. The sound of murmurs and giggles trailed behind them, punctuated with abrupt pauses as they stopped to exchange a heated embrace or steal a kiss. _

_That summer, the young Vicomte de Rameau was at the height of his life. He was an heir to a great fortune with an ageing father; he was endowed with a strong muscular built, a handsome chiseled albeit too-square of a jaw and had full freedom to exercise control and administer justice – although some might call it tyranny – over his lands. _

_More importantly, that year, after so many years of having been left neglected in the shadows by his father, his time had finally come: with his brother, the Iron Mask dead on Belle-Isle, he was to be the one to take his place. To become the new Iron Mask._

_This served to further cement his conviction in his actions; namely, his bullying and his crimes towards the villagers or to whomever stood against the interests of his family. It also finally gave Maxim the thing he had been waiting for his entire life: the approval and trust of his father. For why else would the Comte de Rameau enlist his son to replace the Iron Mask if he did not have absolute confidence in his boy?_

_Maxim de Rameau was an ambitious and vigorous youth. And like many of young men his age, he enjoyed hunting for wild game as much he enjoyed hunting maidens in the ballroom. With all of his attractive attributes, coupled with his charm and flirtatious nature, the women fell to his feet and consequently, into his traps of seduction, mostly to their own detriment._

_…._

"They are at the Dandurand Chateau," an imposing voice echoed through the room.

"What folly! And who's "they", exactly?" replied the raspy voice of an older man.

"Treville's Favorite Four and the girl."

"You mean the _whore_?" Maxim de Rameau corrected him.

The two men turned to the young one. Maxim could see a look of disapproval and disgust on his father's face. He could never understand his father's relationship with the Dandurands. Didn't he hate them? Loathe them? They had been starving the Comte de Dandurand to death until he agreed to commence building the weapons they had demanded. And yet his father seemed to insist that the "girl" be unharmed and unspoiled. For what? Did he want her for himself, perhaps?

And then there was this piece of filth that his father had produced from a nameless whore many years ago. He rarely took off this insidious mask, which troubled Maxim to no end. He could never tell what his "brother" was thinking or how he was looking at him. But these red slits for eyes always seemed to mock him, to belittle him. To think that they had thought him dead for some time. A thought that made Maxim jubilant. Yet this man seemed invincible, almost immortal. How could he have survived an explosion like that?!

The hair stood on his arms as the man in the Iron Mask tilted his head back and roared with laughter - a chilling laughter.

"What's so amusing?" he shot at him.

"What a show you make to compensate for your shortcomings. I would argue that a whore was a woman who had let her body be defiled. Yet, seeing as how you miserably failed to bed her – whether by will or by force – I could declare her a saint. In fact," he continued in the same ridiculing tone, "I could venture as far to say that I quite like her for it. The one thing I salute her for is her success in avoiding _your_ sorry lot. How pathetic, you are, brother."

"YOU PIECE OF –" Before he could finish his own sentence, he lunged at the man with the cape, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

The Iron Mask could hear the angry breath rising from the young man as he gave his little speech. Needless to say, he saw the attack coming. He dodged with ease and with a flick of his wrist in the right spot on Maxim's chest, he caused him to fall to the floor, face first.

He then exited the room, leaving behind another echo of his cold heartless laughter. In his turn, the Comte de Rameau spat on the floor and uttered, "Useless boy," before he followed his eldest illegitimate son out of the room.

…

_It was not love at first sight. While the young Comtesse de Dandurand immediately felt a raw physical attraction to the Vicomte de Rameau, there remained a distant feeling of repulsion deep down in her gut from the very moment she laid eyes on him. Perhaps it was the gossip she had heard about him, or perhaps it was Gerard's opinions, or perhaps it was intuition. She was intrigued, but also intimated and cautious. _

_As for the young vicomte, he was initially put off by the young redhead. He loathed women who made themselves appear reserved and pretentious. He couldn't stomach the stench of prudent chastity and inexperience. Worse still, when he had passed by close to her and heard her debating astronomy, he almost wanted to vomit. He detested people who posed themselves as intellectuals. How pretentious and useless they were. How like his father and his friends and all those people who looked down on him with disdain. As if they were better than him! Ah, but there was nothing he abhorred more than intellect and opinions in a _woman_. And here was one. _

_He proceeded to surround himself with his group of friends and spared no insult against the newcomer. It would have been difficult for his words not to have reached her: the ballroom was small, he spoke loudly, the young women giggled obscenely and the young men offered their own indiscreet opinions on her. Maxim _intended _for her to hear, for her to scamper off back to wherever she came from. Yet, whether she chose to ignore him, or whether she truly was too immersed in her conversation to pay attention proved to him that this was not a sissy girl who would jolt off in tears. _

_In fact, before she quit the ballroom for the evening, she glanced over her shoulder, looked him up and down and sneered. In her eyes, he could see that same disgusted belittling look that his father often graced him with. Bitch!_

_No one makes Maxim de Rameau feel small and walks away unscathed. He will show _her_. _

_…._

_At the next ball, his Machiavellian plans to obtain his revenge on her were interrupted with a kerfuffle coming from the very corner of the room where she had been standing. _

_Everyone turned to look as voices rose and the conversation became colored with insults and curses. The room gasped in unanimity when the young lady removed her glove and slapped the face of her host. _

_"THAT WILL TEACH YOU TO NEVER INSULT MONSIEUR GALILEO!"_

_"OUT THIS INSTANT OR I WILL HAVE THE HOUNDS ON YOU."_

_"WITH PLEASURE." She spat at his feet and stormed off with the utmost dignity. _

_He wasn't sure whether it was her absolute lack of inhibition, her passionate demonstration, or the violence she was clearly capable of when crossed, but something stirred that instant in the barren soul of Maxim de Rameau. _

_He went after her._

_"Have you no carriage, Madame?" _

_"My valet was not supposed to return for at least another two hours," she answered him without so much as glancing at him, thinking it was one of the household staff._

_"May I offer you mine?" _

_She turned around and blushed. His charming smile seemed to have melted whatever cold exterior she was trying to maintain. She accepted._

_They sat in the carriage in silence. He watched her with fascination as she huffed and puffed, observing her body for the first time. Her generous bosom, that heaved up and down with each complaint, her eyes that looked ablaze with sun fire, her cheeks that were red from the excitement and then… her lips, which she kept biting so as not to utter more vulgarities. They looked so soft, pillowy, rich and inviting. _

_So, he invited himself. _

_She was taken by surprise but his kiss was ardent and his grip on her was strong that she had given in almost instantly. She could feel the throbbing between her legs – something she never imagined any man would illicit in her. She returned his gesture with equal ardour. _

_Since that evening, Maxim began courting the same woman for months – an unusual record. Marianne became akin to an oasis from the miserable life that was his existence. She was his. She was _willingly_ his. She had come to represent the class of individuals he had wanted to conquer. Those who had always thought him less than, incompetent and inadequate. If someone as intelligent and proud as Marianne could find anything remotely loveable about him, then surely, this was proof enough that he wasn't, in fact, a retarded imp as his father often referred to him._

…

_For the young uninitiated Marianne de Dandurand, she had reveled in being the unlikely and underestimated winner of the trophy that was the Vicomte de Rameau. She was the one who had "tamed" him._

_Just like many women before her, Marianne convinced herself that she was the saviour who would bring light into his wretched life and make him into a different man, an almost decent man. _

_Yet far from her exercising good influence on him, the balance of their relationship tipped to the other side. Maxim encouraged the parts of her that were often the subject of reproach and attempted repression from her uncle and Gerard. The rebel in her thrived in his presence. She lost all of her inhibitions with him. She adopted his habit of insulting people to their faces with scathing remarks; he even made her witness to and participate in his daily ritual humiliation of some villagers. However, he took care not to go too far when he brought her along for fear of showing her the true extent of his perverted and cruel nature. _

_They became bullies together, feeding off of each other and that elusive feeling of power over those who were unequal to them. The object of their torment would often – unfortunately - include Gerard himself._

_While Marianne did feel guilty at first, these feelings dissipated as she gained the approval and undivided attentions of Maxim de Rameau. He had come to see a partner in her, so he asked her to marry him. She happily agreed and from then on, the battles commenced between her and her uncle. Her uncle's sustained rejections to the idea propelled her further into delinquency._

_Her behaviour became scandalous. She danced only with Maxim at balls, where his hand would linger some inches below her waist, to everyone's shock; they were often seen indiscreetly absconding together to a remote corner of the house and disappear for hours on end. Unkind rumours flew in the social circles of nobility until they reached Paris and rebounded back to the Comte de Dandurand and his counterpart, the Comte de Rameau, the latter having been unaware of the degree of his son's recent attachment. While his father usually had no interest in his son nor in his son's life, save for when he needed to achieve one thing or another, his new dalliance with the Comtesse de Dandurand presented an interesting opportunity. _

_Thus, the turning point for Maxim came one winter ball when he proudly introduced Marianne to his father. After that, his father took a surprisingly keen interest in his relationship, so much so that he would call his son to his private study every week to inquire about the status of their courtship. Then he would lecture him about the importance of marriage and urge him to seal the deal as soon as possible. _

_From then on, Maxim's little oasis was no longer his. His relationship had become tainted thanks to the interference of the one man he hated most in his life: his father. He became resentful and his feelings towards this little lady soured to a dangerous point._

…

_With every ounce of life that Gerard de Villebois possessed, he begged Marianne nonstop not to give herself fully to this bully. And for whatever strange reason, it was the only demand she had agreed to during the war they had declared on each other during her liaison with Maxim. In his turn, Maxim had accepted her condition, knowing full well that she will give in to him sooner or later. It made the game all the more exciting. Not that that was unusual when he was with women, but to have someone as untameable and as proud and intelligent as her succumb to him willingly… well, that was even better. _

_The turning point for Marianne came shortly after Maxim's. Once, while exploring the chateau of their evening's host, they stumbled upon a closed office. Having determined that it was out of the way, Maxim immediately shut the door, took Marianne rudely by the arms and placated her against a wall where he kissed her savagely. She didn't complain. She had gotten accustomed to these aggressive embraces, mistaking them for the passionate fires of love._

_His hands traveled up her thighs, underneath her dress, and as usual, she grabbed them to push them away. However, having anticipated this move, Maxim surprised her by pinning her hands above her head. Her wrists were thin enough that he could hold them both in one hand while the other rudely intruded between her legs._

_"No!" she cried, "No, stop, stop, please stop. Don't!"_

_Hot tears rolled down her face as she felt his fingers inside of her. It was very painful and it burned._

_"MAXIM STOP!" she screamed. She struggled to released herself but to no avail. He was much stronger. His applied the full weight of his body onto hers. He was grinding onto her thigh now. His fingers took a brief reprieve from her body and she heard him undoing his culotte._

_"No," she pleaded, but her voice was barely a whisper._

_Before long, his fingers were back where they were, rudely moving in and out of her. By that time, Marianne had lost sense of space and time. She was being violated and she was helpless to stop it._

_She could feel his hard sex against her nude thigh but to her surprise – and relief – it stayed there. He rubbed against her until she felt a sticky fluid roll down her leg. He took out a handkerchief and wiped her down._

_Her body was trembling with shock. He rudely turned her face to his and kissed her aggressively before completely reversing his attitude and adopting a more affectionate one. He showered her with tender kisses and said, "Come, my darling, it was only in the spirit of the moment. I just want to give you pleasure."_

_He continued to caress her and whisper words of comfort and reassurance. In fact, he confessed his love to her that night and the declaration somehow muddled her judgement._

_After that, she began to want to spend less and less time with him, to impose more rules, throw more tantrums at him in an attempt to repel him, but all of this only seemed to bound her to him more. He wouldn't let her go. He would force her to attend events with him, to continue making fun of those around them and if she refused, he would humiliate her in front of their "friends". _

_He would corner her in the woods, drag her out of ballrooms, start duels with men who simply even talked to her. And then it began. It started with a slap. Then he would grab her arm and twist it. At times, he would push her chest against a tree and rub himself on her behind. He never violated her condition, but he could certainly do other things. She was his and she needed to understand that. Marianne felt like she was dying inside. The time she tried to fight him off, he met her with more violence. _

_By that point, her relationship with Gerard had been so strained and Marianne felt so alone she could not tell anyone. To make matters worse, Maxim knew her secret. He knew what she did in her life and had also begun to threaten her to reveal her secret and expose her uncle for witchcraft._

_The only way out, it had appeared to her, was to marry him. To give in to him fully. If she did, then he would fuck her once or twice before he got bored of her and left her alone in peace. Perhaps then she could think of running away. But for the time being, s__he had felt conquered, trapped and defeated. _

….

After the scrumptious meal and the delightful company, the group dispersed to attend to some tasks in preparation for the invasion. Athos, the Comtesse and her valet descended to the workshop to strategize. The dwellers of the house would also attend to some of the mechanical traps to enhance or repair them. Meanwhile, Athos would work on deciding where to place the gunpowder and how to efficiently use the corridors and secret passageways to their advantage.

Up in the drawing draw, the sofa creaked with the weight of the musketeer who plopped down on it, releasing a sigh of contentment while simultaneously rubbing his belly.

The young woman laughed at this spectacle and seated herself next to him.

"So," he began, clearing his throat. "What were you two doing upstairs earlier? It seemed to take a lot of time."

Aramis smiled to herself and shook her head.

"Oh, we were just… talking," she replied using an innocent tone, deliberately pausing to increase her friend's unfounded intrigue.

"It looks to me as though it was more than just… talking," he gestured grandly to her dress and appearance.

She tilted her head back and burst with laughter. "Don't worry, _mon ami_, I wouldn't dream of stealing your mistress."

He grinned at her. Before they had found out the truth about Aramis, that had been a real concern for Porthos. He would spend hours charming some ladies at a tavern or a ball but the moment the musketeer Aramis walked in, all eyes would turn on his angelic presence and the effort Porthos had exerted would evaporate in a second as the women swooned over his friend.

"You look marvelous, by the way." With that, he placed his arm around her, cuddled her and deposited tender kisses on the top of her head. "A real princess, in fact."

He slightly disengaged from her and lifted her chin up to him. He pushed a rebellious strand of her hair out of the way as he contemplated her face. His eyes brimmed with tears and she knew why. He felt remorseful for what had happened. He wanted to make sure she hadn't suffered, that there were no scars. That the chasm between them was no longer. That she still cared for him, if not loved him.

She could feel her own tears well up. How she had missed him! Her rock, her friend, the source of warmth and comfort in her life.

_"Je vous aime aussi_, _mon ami,"_ she whispered as she flung her arms around him.

They embraced for some time. Aramis held him as he gave free reign to his sobs, letting the pain and tension from the last few weeks dissolve in their embrace. The best part about their friendship was that neither needed to say anything.

"So, what's she like?" he ventured after he had dried his tears and they sat side-by-side once more, Aramis linking her arm in his.

_Where to begin? What was she like? Not what I had thought. She is… complex._ _Contradictory in many different aspects. Somewhat tragic, I would say. Yet also full of life and fun-loving._

"You know, in the nude, I mean?" he probed his companion, seeing as how she was taking a while to answer.

Aramis frowned and pinched him.

"Shame on you," she scolded him.

"Ow! Well, you knew I was going to ask it."

She sighed and shook her head but he could see a big smile trying to make its away on her face.

"Well?"

She chuckled. "I'm not going to tell you, of course. Besides," she nudged him with her elbow and winked, " I'm sure you'll see for yourself before too long. The dinner seems to have gone well so you're on your way to a full redemption!"

A grimace took hold of his features and he sighed. "Redemption or not, it will never happen. Hence why I asked you."

Aramis was taken aback by this grave response. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. How unlike him to sound so… broody and defeatist.

He proceeded to recount to her his earlier conversation with Athos.

"… and so, the honorable thing to do would be to let her go. To find someone else. Someone rich."

Aramis stared at him, dumbfounded.

"What new kind of nonsense is this?!" she lashed at him when she recovered herself. "I leave you and Athos for barely a moment and you both manage to come up with all kinds of trumpery."

"But think of it, surely!" he protested.

"Enough!" she stormed at him.

"Aramis…"

He looked hurt and she felt sorry for overreacting. But the idea was absolutely preposterous.

"I never told you or Athos this before," she began, with a low voice. "But after… After Francois died…" – at the mention of Francois, Porthos' hand instinctively cupped hers – "my uncle tried to force me to marry someone else."

He nodded in understanding. "So that was what pushed you off the cliff, then?"

"It was. It would have been impossible, you see. To have to marry another man, to share his bed. To share my… body… then children. Impossible. Who knows what kind of man it would have been! Death would have been more merciful. You may argue for the sake of comfort but there will never be any comfort. It would be like a slow decaying death to the soul. Don't condemn her to a fate like this."

Her words felt like heavy iron descending on his heart.

"But… she's not like you. I worry she's not… made for a cruel world."

"No one is made for a cruel world. I wasn't either. But there are those who become resilient and others who whither away."

They sat in silence as her words sunk into his mind.

"And anyway," she continued. "Remember that you are not the first man in her life."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Only that I urge you to think about the kind of man she had entangled herself with before. A heartless criminal."

"What are you saying?"

Aramis took a deep breath. Should she betray Marianne's confidence about Maxim? Should she tell Porthos? After all, shouldn't justice be served?

"Tell me everything you know."


	47. Of Monsters and Men

**Chapter 47: Of Monsters and Men**

The senior musketeer stood behind the inventor's desk, his palms placated firmly onto its surface on either side of the blueprints he was studying. He nodded quietly to himself.

He was almost finished detailing his plan when it began. He had known it will come sooner or later. Anyone who had been around the Comtesse and her valet lately could smell the rancid air between them from miles ahead.

"Should you be wearing that dress here?" Gerard threw the first punch with his snarky tone.

He was staring her down without any hint of discretion. But he wasn't _just_ staring her down. There was something else there. It was a look Athos recognized: He wanted to humiliate her, to insult her, to bring up the depths of his own pain and rejection and spit them out onto her. In short, he was about to cross a line.

Athos watched with apprehension as the young Comtesse turned slowly to her right to face her valet. She mirrored his gaze.

"Why, does my appearance displease you?" she retaliated.

"Your appearance is…" he paused as he pretended to search for the words, "…insignificant to me."

She received his words like a fist to the stomach, precisely as he intended to. His face lit up with satisfaction.

"Then why do you care?" she practically spat, through clenched teeth and fists, her anger mounting.

"Only because it will be my _mother_ who will have to clean and repair this dress because of your immature negligence. And anyway, it's not _your_ dress," he answered her coldly.

"It _is_ my dress!" she yelled, stomping her foot.

He took a step forward and leaned in. "No, it is not your dress. It's your mother's dress."

"It was fitted for ME!"

He sniggered to himself. He could smell smoke coming out of her ears. She was falling into his trap. He wanted her to lose her temper, he wanted her to deliver the first blow so that he could no longer have an excuse to restrain himself with her.

And yet, he didn't even know why. What had Marianne done to him, really? Was it a buildup of resentment from years of mistreatment? Was it because of her association with Maxim? Perhaps it was because she reminded him of the man who was involved in the death of his father, namely her uncle? The Comte de Dandurand was not present after all, so it wasn't as though Gerard can take the fight to him. Or maybe because he finally realized that in all those years he had been devoted to her, he had had the freedom to leave but chose to stay to protect her when in fact, she never needed him nor his protection?

Whatever it was, all he knew was that he was filled with rage, with hatred, with the desire of revenge. He was blind and he no longer cared who or what his actions would be directed at. He simply wanted to direct them, to channel them, to appease the beast within. And why not her? She was used to it after all, wasn't she? She was used to some degree of abuse. She had accepted it in the past, _n'est-ce pas_? If Aramis was truly right and Marianne didn't need him, then he could allow himself to be liberal with his treatment of her. After all, she could take care of herself, no?

"You never wanted to wear it in the first place when it was presented to you, why now?" he provoked her. "Oh wait, allow me: you're through with the musketeer, or he's through with _you_, whichever, really. Or perhaps you realized that the musketeer can offer you nothing so you cast your net at the Prince once more. Yet knowing how insatiable you are and how taken up they both seem by you, you tell yourself, 'Why not have both?' and so you present yourself, all coiffed up like never before, with this –" to Marianne's utter astonishment and horror, his fingers landed on her bosom where they lightly traced the curvature of her cleavage.

As he finished his sentence, Athos, who had been a silent observer this whole time cringed with all of his being. Did that just happen? The devoted valet, the one who had compromised his own dignity by shedding his tears in front of him at the loss of his mistress. The very same who was torn up about finding her and rescuing her; he, who was ready to sacrifice himself in her place just a day ago… What changed?

Ah, but Athos knew that wounded hearts tended to waver between two paths: one of peace and another of darkness. He had been down the second path so many times, he recognized all the symptoms in this young man.

But he also knew better not to interfere. At least, not yet. So, with all subtlety and quietness, Athos removed himself from their presence and stood behind the door, listening and watching. Just in case. He wasn't sure whom he was concerned about more. Usually one worried about the safety of a woman, left alone with an angry man. But Athos found himself worried about the valet in this situation. Marianne was merciless if she wanted to be, he could tell. And with all the instruments around, she could very well kill him with no remorse. Yes, for he had known a woman like her once…

…

Gerard de Villebois knew his mistress inside and out. He knew that Marianne usually punched with her right fist, directed to the face and so he was prepared to block her, twist her arm around and push her so that she would lash at him again and he could finally hit her under the pretense of self-defence.

He wore a smug look on his face after his last insult.

Alas, to his great astonishment – and even that of Athos', who was intently listening by the door – a piercing laughter echoed through the room. It was nothing like Gerard had ever heard before. It was not a laughter born out of amusement, rather, it sounded like a sorceress' cackle. Chilling, and imbued with darkness.

Marianne shook her head and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. She took a step forward towards him and caressed his cheek in the same manner that he used on her bosom not a few seconds ago.

"How droll you are!" she said to him. "It's absolute comedy to hear you say that, coming from the person who, not a few days ago whored himself out to the musketeer Aramis."

Athos' heart sank. If he had had any hint of a doubt left, any hope that that was not true, it vanished into thin air. Gerard stiffened. Marianne's voice sounded different. She no longer had that shrilly girlish voice which she used to argue with him. That voice that came about naturally to her for she was always uninhibited with him. No, there was nothing natural about her in this moment. She regarded him with pure disdain. One that she only reserved for those who wronged her. One that she only reserved for… strangers.

He understood in that moment that they _had_ become strangers to one another.

He no longer knew who this girl, nay woman, standing before him was. But from this unexpected turn of events he concluded that, she too, had been wrestling with herself. He could now see which path she decided to walk on, for they had finally come to meet each other in this dark and abysmal void.

"…seeing as how, what was it, again?" she continued, pretending to search for the words. "Oh yes, seeing as how she's through with you or you with her, whichever really. Or perhaps you realized that the musketeer can offer you nothing – given that, well, she's a woman. Yet knowing how insatiable you are, you cast your net at the next best thing: the musketeer Athos. And seeing how taken up they both seem by you, you tell yourself, 'Why not have both?' and so you present yourself, all – " Here, Marianne paused, for lack of words and simply gestured at Gerard's overall appearance.

What can she say? Present yourself all rugged-looking, more handsome that I had never seen you before? No, she will not compliment him. But she will have a bit of fun humiliating him. After all, he left her to the worst possible fate she could have. As if their friendship all those years meant nothing to him. He made her feel like she was nothing. Very well, then.

She took a step closer such that they now stood so close to one another that their breath intermingled. Athos' eyes widened as he looked on from the crack in the door. His pulse accelerated. He knew this move. He had been _had_ by this move before.

Gerard, who was frozen in place, did not react when Marianne stroked his torso underneath his chemise, nor when she took his hand in hers, nor when she whispered: "All those years, you had us believe you could not be with a woman. That you were… different. And yet… here we are. What vexes me most is that you chose to keep this… delectable body from _me_."

Nor did he react when, after she finished her phrase, she placated her lips onto his and kissed him with fervour, forcing a passage through his mouth with her tongue.

It continued for some time and the more motionless he remained, the more aggressive she became. He was startled eventually when her hand rested on his crotch. His body had betrayed him, he realized. Marianne gave him a generous squeeze before she disengaged herself with a most evil smirk.

Humiliation: successful. Laughing and victorious, she turned away to leave when…

"AHHH!" she screamed. Having come out of his stupor, Gerard caught the young woman by the hair and yanked on it with all his force. Marianne lost her balance. He caught her, imprisoned her in his arms and whispered. "You were always a spoiled little bitch, Marianne."

Now fully unamused and roused, she flung her foot up and kicked him in the groin, "And you were always a whiny little coward of a sodomite!"

Everything was a blur to Athos from this moment. They were all over the place and he could only hear loud clangs and clinks as things fell, broke or were hurled about the room.

_Take this! Take that! _

_Poufiasse. Espèce de la merde. Salope. Inverti. Enfant de chienne. Sale pute. Trainée. _

_This is for the time you snitched me to my uncle! This is for the time you abandoned me! This is for the time you let Maxim kill my dog! This is for the time you destroyed my painting! _

Athos opened the door slightly more, should he intervene? As he guessed, the young lady was not helpless. Furthermore, she seemed to know her opponent's movements like the back of her hand. She dodged, she moved, she hit, she swung, she threw things at him. He did the same. They punched each other, kicked at each other and with all their might. Gerard did not reserve an ounce of his strength. Marianne's dress was torn and he could even spy a few strands of her hair in Gerard's hands. _Good God!_

Yet something about this scene did not seem so totally unusual. As if this was their natural way of being.

…

The storm continued for some time, erupting in more destruction and further colorful speech. The accusations ranged from the most mundane to more serious offences until it seemed to Athos that neither one could possibly have anything else to settle with the other.

The two went quiet for a minute. Athos could tell they were both exhausted. They were hyperventilating, their voices turned raspy from the shouting and the yelling. He was sure it was over.

He was wrong.

Their voices rose again and things began to fly around once more. At this rate, there will be nothing left for them to use against the Iron Mask, he lamented to himself.

Marianne was becoming exhausted. Her movements slowed down. She switched to a defensive position now, struggling not to let him know that she was losing ground. Her plan was to keep dodging and running from him until she wore him out. Then she can either walk away or declare her victory by a punch to the stomach to make him hurl. Easy, she had done it before. Except, that was when they were young, much younger. But she will not let him see that she doubted herself.

However, something unexpected happened: Gerard de Villebois picked up the snake blade and he shook it to form the sword. Never in their arguments had they ever used weapons. Objects, yes. Weapons, never.

_He can't be serious_, Marianne thought to herself as she dashed behind a large metallic mass of some machinery her uncle was constructing.

Athos could now only hear Gerard's voice, raining down more and more accusations on his friend. Except that these accusations no longer pertained to the person he was addressing. He was laying down charges that had nothing to do with Marianne anymore. The death of his father, for instance. The betrayal of his mother, of her uncle. The crimes of Maxim. The events in his life that caused him pain and wounded him beyond repair.

He located her behind the machinery and made his way towards her. He walked unhurriedly, his voice cold and detached, swinging the blade casually in his hand.

The blood moved like hot magma within his body. For after years and years of being a disregarded lackey, a shadow to a woman who was nothing but a spoiled brat, a pawn, someone to insult and sacrifice, he was ready to finally act. Ready to strike.

Marianne became paralyzed with horror. She broke out in cold sweat, barely catching her breath as the reality dawned on her: In this moment, she had come to represent everything he abhorred in his life, all the injustices he had been subjected to. She was no longer a human to him but a symbol. She was no longer a friend, but an object upon which he could take revenge.

This was no longer a game. No longer a heated argument between old friends who were as close as siblings. This was bigger and graver. Gerard had crossed into the darkness; he had jumped into an abyss with no turning back.

For the first time in her life, Marianne felt afraid. Afraid of the one person she had loved and entrusted herself with her whole life. Her childhood friend, her companion, her brother.

She made a split-second decision to dash towards the exit but she barely moved before he caught her and pushed her down to the floor. She screamed. He grabbed both her hands behind her back and pulled on her shoulders. She winced with pain. He then moved on top of her, placing the entire weight of his body onto hers.

He pushed a few strands of hair away from her face. She could feel the humidity from his mouth carress his ear when he whispered. "You shouldn't have done that earlier, you know."

Yes, she had gone too far, admittedly. She had violated him, she had touched him and fondled him without his permission for the purpose of humiliating him. And it had made her feel powerful, in control. It had made her feel like herself when she was with Maxim. Oh, but how disgusted she felt now.

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered back, struggling to contain her tears.

"Not enough, I'm afraid," he whispered back, as his hand gripped the skirts of her dress and pulled them up to her waist.

Marianne's eyes widened with horror. She felt the cold humid air of the room on her nude thighs, on her behind, which was now exposed.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she cried as she felt him undo the laces of his culotte. She gulped, feeling something hard and fleshy on her behind. _No, no, it can't be._

"Punishing you like the whore that you are, my darling," he answered her. His hand fiddled with his laces some more, as he pulled out his member and stroked it a couple of times. This should be easy. He was confident about what to do now, seeing as how he was no longer an innocent. He was experienced now. He knew what a woman's body was like, he knew how to manipulate it, how to touch it, how to… violate it.

On his part, Athos was completely paralyzed. He ought to jump in and interfere. He ought to remove this… this monster of a man off of her. This man whom he had believed in, whom he had even thought he could become a comrade with. This was also a chance for him to end him right then and there. He could easily take his revenge and simply say that he was defending the lady. And yet he found himself utterly unable to move, for all he saw before him was himself, about a year ago, about to subject the woman he loved to the same punishment because she had lied to him; because he had felt betrayed and hurt. _He_ had also been a monster.

Athos sank to the floor. Where was his honor? His sense of duty? But how could he claim either when he, himself, had almost committed an atrocious act like this. And now he was about to become complicit in one by not preventing it. The guilt and shame inside of him compounded together to form a large brick that pressed on his chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't respond… The tears rolled hotly down his cheeks. Although he was turned away from the door, he could hear the whimpering from inside, the sobbing and finally the piercing cry like a wounded animal that would haunt him to the rest of his days.


	48. Transformation

**Chapter 48: Transformation**

Marianne de Dandurand was sprawled on the floor, immobilized and helpless. Thick fog clouded her mind as she struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening around her: her best friend, her childhood companion, her brother, was about to commit the unspeakable. Was this a nightmare? Perhaps if she closed her eyes and willed herself into unconsciousness then she would wake up in another world; upstairs in her bedroom, on her comfortable bed. It would be a fine autumn morning with a full day of discovery and exploration. She would have no care in the world but to satisfy her own pursuits and passions.

Alas, the dampness of this room, the pain from the bruises and scratches she had sustained during this argument was all too real. Then there was the feeling of a growing heaviness in her hands as the knees of her assailant pressed onto her forearms, cutting off the blood flow. Finally, the sound of breathing. _His_ breathing… Rapid and loud, as he was in the process of undoing the laces on his culotte. Then, the movement of his hands as he took out what was in them and began stroking it.

She closed her eyes tighter, willing the whole scene to disappear with all her might. Yet memories of the past few weeks flashed through her mind: the night she fled from the Iron Mask… the warm comfortable home of Cecile du Vallon… the bright smile of Emilie du Vallon… her short-lived time as a governess… the night of the ball… Maxim in an Iron Mask… Porthos… Oh, Porthos… he was supposed to come and save her, but he rejected her again.

The tears flowed down her cheeks. She loved him, she genuinely loved him. Fond memories of late summer days spent in his company tugged painfully at her heart. All was lost. Never again will she feel the budding of first love, that excitement and anticipation of physical proximity to one's loved one. Never again could she ever be close to a man after this. Her innocence would be lost forever. Stolen, torn away.

_Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts!_ She cooed to herself. _Cecile's home… Cecile's cooking… The children… Ah, blasted_! Everything reminded her of Porthos._ Something else… Think of something else… Childhood… _No, that reminded her of Gerard_… Oh God, oh God… No…_

She felt his clammy hands press on her butt cheeks. She couldn't stop the tears.

_Happy thoughts, happy thoughts… warmer thoughts… warm… water… bath… the bath with Aramis… Aramis! Yes, Aramis! _

Something clicked in Marianne's mind that shook her out of her own paralysis. She cannot give in. She must fight. She absolutely _must_. At the same moment, her eyes caught a shimmer close to her left arm. The snake blade!

Without him noticing, she inched her hand closer to it and managed to grip the handle. Sword be damned, it was too heavy to lift as a straight blade. _Ah yes, the mechanism!_ With her index finger, she pressed a tiny lever and the sword reverted back to its chain-like vertebrae. A whip made of blades. Yes, that should do it.

With renewed strength and resolve, Marianne flexed her arm as much as she could under the weight of her assailant, and with a grunt, she swung the blade towards Gerard.

It slapped his nude thigh, barely grazing it before it fell down, limp and useless. Marianne panicked. She just wasn't strong enough. Ah, but the surprise attack caused him to move his left leg thereby liberating her arm. Marianne, jubilant, began rousing herself and preparing for her next move.

Then, she heard it.

A scream, a wail, so sharp and pierce, full of lament and terror. Like the cry of a siren in the dark depths of the sea.

She froze for a moment. Did that come from her? No, it couldn't be. And yet it came from her direction. It was _him_.

She lifted herself up cautiously, realizing that her body was now completely liberated. She looked behind her to see him crouched over on the floor in a fetal position, seizing violently and sobbing, muttering incoherently.

She stood up and examined him as one would examine a bug: with curiosity and detachment. Was it the result of her strike with the blade? She looked for signs of blood on his thigh but the effect had been superficial.

She almost jumped as a hand encircled her foot. Instinctively, she bent over and picked up the blade once more, reverting it to its sword form which she pointed at him.

"Marianne…Marianne…" he sobbed violently on the floor. She could barely make out the words he was uttering. _Forgive… came over me… blind… oh Marianne… Monster… Monster…Monster!_

"I'm a monster!" he cried out. She stared at him with utter bewilderment. Marianne had never been a believer in mythological creatures, in spirits or in demons but for all her scientific knowledge and convictions, she would have sworn she was witnessing some sort of exorcism.

She glanced at the blade. Could it have magical powers? One stroke and it expelled the demon?

_No, no, no, don't be an imbecile, Marianne!_ She shook her head. She continued to point her sword at him as she circled him before she finally placed the blade at his neck. Whatever happened in that split second, it seemed as though Gerard had rudely awakened from under a demonic spell. She could now recognize her old friend.

"Rise," she commanded him without pity.

…

Hurried footsteps echoed in the dark corridor that led to the workshop. Damn these shoes, she should have kept her boots on, Aramis thought to herself as she dashed towards the source of the commotion.

After their little repose, Aramis discharged Porthos with the task of moving the gunpowder barrels while she went to fetch Athos to go over the final plans. She had barely descended the stairs from the kitchen when she heard the scream.

Breathless, she reached the door of the workshop and was about to push it open when she noticed a limp figure crouched by the wall in the dark.

"Athos!" she cried, as she bent down. He was motionless; her hands frenetically searched his body for any signs of wounds. "Athos, Athos!" her trembling voice brought him to reality. He met her gaze with a void one.

She cupped his face with her hands. "Athos, are you hurt? Athos?"

"I… hurt you…" was all he could say. The panic in her was slightly subdued, replaced by confusion, which was further compounded when the musketeer broke out into a sob and fell forward into her arms.

Aramis looked around her, stupefied. She had never seen Athos like this before. She brought her nose to his face. No alcohol stench, so he wasn't drunk. But she had heard of cases where men became delusional just before they died. Was he dying?

"ATHOS!" she slapped him before cupping his face firmly again. "Tell me what happened."

Athos lifted his forearm with great effort and pointed with his thumb towards the door. "In there… he… she… fought… _il… il l'a v-viol…"_

Aramis' eyes widened with horror.

"NON!" she cried and sprang through the door.

…

A few steps in and the crunch of glass underneath her foot stopped her in her tracks. The young femme-musketeer paused and looked around her. She was stupefied. Everything was in shambles. There was destruction everywhere, as if a storm had entered the house and sought out this room specifically to consume.

Then, she saw them.

Gerard was on the floor, his back to the inventor's desk, legs sprawled, hair disheveled and… _oh mon dieu, non!_ His breeches were pulled down to his knees; if it weren't for the long chemise he wore, his crotch would have been exposed.

She followed his defeated gaze to the woman who towered over him, holding a blade to his neck. _The_ blade… Manson's blade. Aramis could recognize this weapon anywhere and from any distance. Marianne's dress was torn in many places, and Aramis could see bruises and cuts on her arms and legs. She searched them both for signs of a hemorrhage but there was none. She breathed a sigh of relief before reminding herself that the blood might indeed be there, only not visible to the outsider. That is, it would be on Marianne, on the inside of her thighs. Aramis felt sick at the thought. _No, no, it can't be!_ But why would Athos lie? And what else would explain why Gerard was half nude? Where was Athos in all of this?

Her suspicions were confirmed when Gerard, with a choked voice uttered. "I'm a monster… do it. End me now."

Aramis looked on helplessly. Marianne pressed the blade further into his skin, causing a trickle of blood to come out. He closed his eyes.

"Please, Marianne. I beg you. Just end it. End it, please. I don't deserve to live. Deliver me, Marianne, please."

His pleading was heart-wrenching. Every ounce of his speech carried the stench of guilt and desperation. There was no doubt now. He had committed himself to a dark path.

"Oh, Gerard…" Aramis whispered to herself, her heart twisting on itself. She was so fond of him. What could have happened? She desperately wanted to understand, to stop everything right then and there. But should she? Did she have a right to prevent a woman from avenging her honor? Can she simply turn the other cheek?

"Marianne…" she whispered, taking a few steps towards the young redhead, unsure what she was trying to accomplish.

The latter stole a glance at the newcomer before turning back to her victim. She dug the sword deeper but Aramis could now see that her arm trembled.

"Ahhh! TO HELL WITH THIS!" she cried out and swung her arm in the air. Gerard closed his eyes. Finally. Relief.

The blade produced a loud clang as it crashed into the wall and fell on the floor.

Gerard opened his eyes cautiously. Their gaze met.

"I think you would suffer more if you lived," she said and turned away.

…

Having regained some of his composure, Athos re-entered the workshop and sought out its inhabitants. He arrived just in time to see Marianne's blade fly in the air and Gerard's head fall to his knees with renewed sobs. He approached the trembling young man and, out of sympathy and pity, he began to dress him.

Aramis turned to him. "Were you here the whole time?"

Athos nodded without meeting her gaze. She was dumbfounded.

"Why didn't you interfere?"

Athos exhaled and rose up from Gerard to face the woman before him, whose anger was now rising. She regarded him with disdain.

"I…"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "What happened to you, Athos? Explain yourself, for Heaven's sake!" she yelled, shaking him by the shoulders.

"I don't know what came over me… all I could see was you and me… in that little servant's room in the Spanish court…"**

"That was different!" she responded.

"Was it? Don't justify it."

"I…" had she justified it before? The fact that he had wanted to possess her body out of anger, out of revenge, out of appeasing the betrayal she had inflicted on him. But they had moved on from there, hadn't they?

She felt Athos' hand stroke her cheek with the tip of his fingers.

"If you hadn't been a musketeer," he began, "if you had been any other woman with no martial experience… how do you think that incident would have turned out, hm? How do you think I would have acted? Do you think you would have been able to stop me?"

"Athos…" she couldn't fathom these sudden realizations on the part of her comrade. Something in him had stirred. She very well knew the answers to these questions, for she had asked them of herself afterwards. She had wondered about them many times but she had chosen to forsake that part of their story. After all, she did love him.

He kissed her forehead, acknowledging her silence. "Exactly. So, you see. I'm a monster too." A sad smile crossed hie face. "Go attend to the Comtesse. I'll clean up some of this mess." He finished, gesturing to the room and Gerard.

…

Upstairs, in Marianne's bedroom, the young Comtesse lay on the bed, face down, entirely nude while the femme-musketeer passed a wet towel on her body.

"Ow, ow, ow!" complained the Comtesse.

"It won't be long, I'm applying the ointment now," Aramis replied. Her voice had a motherly tone to it that soothed the young woman. The musketeer's brows furrowed with concern. Only a few hours ago she had seen this body, perfectly pristine and flawless. And now… the sight of the injuries on her friend's body pained her.

She massaged her forearms where she could tell the circulation had been interrupted. The skin there was blanched. She knew this immobilizing tactic all too well. She couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Marianne," she began. "I know this is hard but…" She swallowed. "You have to let me look… there."

"No, there's no need," came the muffled reply of the Comtesse. She had her face buried in the pillow so as not to display any weakness in front of the woman she had come to admire.

Aramis gently turned Marianne's head towards her. She was surprised when the young woman smiled at her. "Could you…?" she pointed to a robe that was placed on the back of an armchair. The musketeer fetched it and helped Marianne into it. The latter sat up in her bed and took the musketeer's hand in hers. She kissed it.

"I think I would have finished him if you hadn't come," she said. "Which is all too well because I do not want to become that person."

Aramis leaned in, gently tucked away a rebellious strand of hair before depositing a kiss on Marianne's forehead. The latter, completely unfamiliar with any demonstration of tenderness in her regard, could no longer control her tears. The two women embraced for a while, the musketeer whispering calming and reassuring words to her friend while she stroked her head.

…

"Marianne, you have to let me look," Aramis brought up the topic again with great difficulty. The last thing she wanted was to aggravate her friend and bring up this sordid topic, but she did not want her to carry any scars or damage. It had to be taken care of.

Marianne squeezed her hand in hers. "There's no need because it didn't happen."

"But…" Aramis was surprised. "But he said… and he was undressed and…"

"He didn't succeed."

"Do you know," Marianne continued, "For quite a while now, I had come to accept that to be defiled or violated was just an inevitability waiting to happen. If it hadn't been for Gerard, Maxim would have done it. Then, if it hadn't been for Porthos, Maxim in the Iron Mask would have done it. If I had gotten married to Rochefort, then it would have been him. And today… Every time it happened, I would be resigned to it. I don't put up as much resistance because I genuinely believed that that would be my destiny."

"Marianne…" Aramis whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. The sadness washed over her. Ah but this was the reality, wasn't it? The inherent reality of being a woman. A reality that she had succeeded in avoiding by being Aramis, but that as soon as her identity was revealed, it would come back to haunt her. Athos' last words echoed in her head: _what would have happened if you were any other woman, without martial experience?_

Marianne exhaled and smiled. "But today, mon amie, in that moment of desperation and darkness, I made a decision: I decided to fight."

Aramis could feel her heart melt. Marianne's eyes sparkled with pride; not the kind of pride one derives out of self-importance, but the kind of pride that comes from accomplishing something. The one that comes from courage, from action. Despite the traumatic incident Marianne had just experienced, she looked as radiant as ever. A triumphant warrior.

Aramis was moved beyond anything. She understood her so well. She smiled to herself, remembering the young Renee, making her first victories as Aramis, transforming into the warrior she had become. But those firsts were unforgettable: first duel, first brawl, first loss, first mission. They were experiences of transformation, of transcendence, of empowerment.

Marianne deposited a kiss on the soft cheek of her companion.

"I chose my own destiny, thanks to you. _Tu es une vraie sœur, Aramis_. »

…

The door of the room flung open, revealing a large and imposing figure. A livid figure.

"WHERE IS HE! I WILL KILL HIM!"

The two women glanced at each other. So, word has reached Porthos.

"ARAMIS! TELL ME WHERE HE IS RIGHT NOW!" the dragon thundered.

The musketeer rolled her eyes and sighed.

"I don't know where he is," she replied calmly.

"I swear to all the Gods of war and death that I will not rest until…"

He was cut off by the sound of laughter. For the first time since he barged into the room, his eyes rested on Marianne. _His_ Marianne, draped in a thin piece of fabric that served as a robe, propped up against a few pillows, her hand to her mouth suppressing her giggles. She was both amused by the sight of this grand musketeer in such a huff and also touched by his protective gesture.

Any doubts she had had about his affections were quenched in that moment. He loved her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. But mostly, in his actions. After all, he risked everything for her. His reputation and his occupation as a musketeer were everything to a man like Porthos. Being a musketeer was his life, his pride, his honor. Yet he defied the orders of his house arrest at the pain of losing his position for _her_. For Marianne.

She was tired of all the games between them, of all the misunderstandings that kept driving a wedge between them. It was time to come together now, once and for all.

"Aramis will go in search of him," Marianne offered, winking at Aramis. Slightly annoyed, Aramis quickly understood. She inclined her head in acknowledgement and the two exchanged a complicit smile.

"Now, will you stay with me?" Marianne turned to Porthos, putting on the most innocent face she possibly could.

Any rage that boiled within the musketeer was completely quelled with that demand. He didn't know what to say. _Yes, of course I want to stay with you. I want to cradle you in my arms, to protect you, to shield you, to love you, to…_

"Well?" Aramis nudged him. "Will you ignore the lady?"

He shook his head vehemently, unable to speak as if under a spell, and made his way over to replace Aramis.

As the two musketeers crossed paths, Aramis gripped his thick arm and whispered, "If you so much as ruin it this time, you will have my sword to answer to."

Porthos suppressed a grin. "Hm, thankfully you're not the best swordsman in town."

Aramis gave him a glare. "Very well then, my musket."

Porthos gulped. Aramis was, after all, the best shot in the regiment and in the military combined, thus making her the best shot in all of France, really.

"Point taken. I wasn't going to ruin it anyway." He responded.

"I'll take your word for it," she smiled.

"Oh, and Aramis," Marianne called out after her. "Make sure you do find Athos and Gerard. _Les pauvres._ They looked like they suffered the worst."

With that snarky and condescending remark, Aramis was now sure that her friend's spirit was well and alive.

A warm smile crossed her face: Porthos was holding Marianne's hands, while they exchanged shy smiles and lovestruck looks.

All was well in the land of Marianne de Dandurand.

She closed the door behind her, the relief and temporary happiness she felt were quickly replaced by the dreadful anticipation of what awaited her.


	49. Full Circle

Chapter 49: Full Circle

**Author's note:**

_Wow, it's been a whole year since I started writing this story! I can't thank all my readers enough for their continued support throughout this wonderful journey. Your readership and reviews are the fuel that keeps me going._

_I took a bit of a break over the summer and now I hope to continue posting more regularly until the end of the story. I don't anticipate it going over 70 chapters so we're getting there and I really appreciate your patience so far (also, I hope you're not bored!)._

_This chapter is very special to me because it is precisely the first scene that came to my mind and around which I based this entire story. It sounds crazy that out of a love scene, an entire complex plot could be born but here we are… _

_As a writer, I love writing and reading erotic scenes. I find that we can learn so much from the erotic, from the fantasies of other people, from their experiences (whether real or imagined). It provides a framework for our shared existence as humans; it's how we connect and how we know we're not alone in our experiences. _

_The other reason why erotica and experiencing the erotic is so important is simply because it gives us pleasure. Pleasure makes us feel alive and is the antidote to guilt, shame and fear. Pleasure can also be a powerful tool to heal trauma and reconnect with our very essence. It is a positive and empowering emotion._

_And what better character to guide us through pleasure than Porthos? :D _

_Despite him being a musketeer – who were notorious for their escapades with women - I always believed that Porthos cared about giving pleasure to his partners as much as getting it for himself. He is the kind of man who understands that lovemaking doesn't necessarily need to have a "goal" (aka the orgasm); that the simple act of letting go, of being, relaxing, enjoying, touching, kissing, fondling… etc is enough to take a person to the seventh heaven. _

_This is why I think he would be the ideal partner to heal the trauma in Marianne's past and show her new possibilities in the world of sex._

_But! I didn't want to stop there, of course. After all, it takes two to tango. While I tried hard not to make Marianne a damsel-in-distress, it was inevitable at certain points because that was simply what life was like in the 17th century for a woman. Even in fiction we can't seem to override this aspect (but that is why we love Aramis so much, no? __😉 ). That being said, I didn't want this to be a one-sided deal where Porthos does all the work. Yes, he is the perfect person to help her overcome her past and guide her out of her innocence, but the key here is this: no one can make us happy except ourselves. This means Marianne needs to be willing, open and receptive herself. Not only that, she needs to connect with her own desire, to want things for herself, to feel out what feels good for her and what doesn't, to speak up about it and also to have the desire to want to give back to her partner and be truly engaged in their lovemaking. She needs to _choose to enter_ into this experience. Sex, after all, is a "place we go into, not something we do" – to quote Esther Perel._

_I started off by wanting to emphasize the importance of female sexuality by focusing on Marianne's point-of-view and try to bring her desire to the forefront instead of describe the actions that are being done to her. For example, what does _she_ want to do to him? Not just what she wants done to her. How does _she_ want to participate in this? In what way does her desire manifest for him? Is she just comfortable receiving? How does his body make her feel? Where does she want to explore? What does she want to do? How does she want to make _him_ feel?_

_However, it occurred to me that this isn't just about female sexuality but sexuality itself as a whole, regardless of gender. Everyone walks into a sexual experience with the same stigmas, fears, insecurities and desires to be fulfilled. Perhaps one day we wouldn't be discussing female vs. male sexuality but rather simply just "sexuality"._

_I want my characters to feel pleasure as much as I want them to feel empowered and convinced by their choices. A positive sex image is the one I want to convey through these characters, especially in this scene that also has the added complexity of Marianne's virginity. (Herein is yet another iconic issue that has been the subject of intense social stigma, the premise of which serves nothing other than to control female sexuality, using it unashamedly as a measure for a woman's "worth".)_

_I tried to make the chapter as balanced as possible in switching between the lovers' points-of-view, hopefully it was successful. Please let me know in the comments if something was missing._

_Of course, good sex doesn't always necessitate being in love but what does make for good sex are two important things: 1) communication and 2) respect, so this is the message I want to drive home. (also having fun and laughter is a good ingredient too)._

_Alright, sorry for the unsolicited sex column (brought to you by endless hours of listening to Esther Perel). Here is the chapter and I hope you enjoy. Thank you again for sticking around this far. Reviews are always welcome, even if to let me know you're reading (you can leave a review in any language you'd like!)_

_PS: After having finished the chapter, I made the creative decision to split it into two for two reasons. One, it was very long on its own (about 12k words) and two, it was crying out to be published and I could no longer keep it in. This scene has been in my head for over a year now. _

**PPS: **This chapter is slow and really takes its time.** It is also NOT recommended for those below the age of 18.**

….

Porthos crouched by the fireplace, poker in one hand, log in the other. The darkness in the room was beginning to gradually recede as the fire caught on. To mark success in this task, he would occasionally glance at the corner of the room where Marianne was getting dressed behind a screen. The more light bathed the room, the more defined the young woman's silhouette became.

Marianne was remarking about the weather. At least, as far as he could tell, for his mind was too focused on coloring in the silhouette that moved about in a rustle of fabric. He had to shake his head and force himself to look away when she stepped out from behind the screen.

Marianne smiled to herself and blushed. While neither of them could see the other through the dark fabric of the screen, she could nonetheless feel his eyes on her.

He stood up, dusted the soot off of his clothes, alternating between rubbing his hands together or onto his clothes, which he then dusted off again and repeated the gesture. Marianne suppressed a giggle at this inefficient way of soot removal and handed him a towel instead.

Embarrassed, he murmured a thank you and pretended to be occupied so as not to have to interact with her. He was sure that she had caught him spying on her earlier and now found himself nervous. He couldn't think of one thing to say to her. How ironic! The loud and charismatic musketeer, the most popular man in any tavern and any brothel, now rendered speechless, reduced to a clumsy awkward pubescent boy.

The towel was becoming damp with the sweat it wicked off from his clammy hands. _Say something, say something, you buffoon! Don't just stand there! _

But all that came out of him were obnoxious noises of phlegm as he attempted to clear his throat several times.

_Oh, but how lovely she looks!_ He swooned internally. Even without the fancy gown, Marianne was absolutely stunning to him. She was clothed in another one of her simple dresses. The pastel peachy color brought out the red streaks in her hair more profoundly. Her eyes glowed like two ambers in the soft light, her red lips curved up in a smile that melted his heart. Oh, and her figure! Marianne had curves in all the right places… if he could only stretch out his hand and… _no, no!_ He cleared his throat again.

Meanwhile, Marianne observed him with great amusement, delighted with the effect she had on him. Finally, her compassion won over to put him out of his misery.

"Did you enjoy the wine at dinner?" she asked, attempting to start a conversation.

He cleared his throat yet another time before nodding in appreciation.

"Very much. In fact, it reminded me of a wine I had in Spain once. But, you ought to try the wine from Bourgogne. I am confident you will love it. It is absolutely divine! Err, that is, you do like wine, don't you?" he hesitated, afraid of having been too presumptuous about her preferences in his excitement.

To his relief, Marianne enthused, "Oh yes!"

She sat on the edge of the bed, as her companion launched a monologue on wine: where to find the best in France, what distinguishes each one from the other and the gastronomy that suited each type.

She listened intently, marveling at the depth of his knowledge. Porthos knew all the things that Marianne didn't. She could listen to him for hours; to his stories, his adventures, his travels, his critiques and reviews of auberges and taverns. And when it came to cuisine, well, he was a virtuoso.

She clutched her knees to her chest, staring up at him in awe and admiration. How glad she was that this awkward frigidness finally melted. It now felt like the first time they met, in the King's gardens, where he fed her all kinds of scrumptious treats by the fountain. Things flowed so smoothly between them then. It was the first time in her life that Marianne felt uninhibited and relaxed in the company of someone else.

Alas, so much has happened since then… so much darkness. Marianne longed to go back. She longed to that day by the lake when they first kissed and she promised to run away with him. She wished she could go back to the day after and change everything. She should have gone with him. She should have listened to her heart.

Caught up in her reverie, she was unaware of her darkening features.

Porthos trailed off, upon seeing the change overtake his companion. Of course, his unsolicited lecture on wine was boring to her. Marianne didn't care about wine or food, or anything else he had to say for that matter. She wasn't like the others – someone to gawk and gasp and be impressed by his swashbuckling stories. Marianne was intelligent. She was interested in big things, in serious things. Next to her, the grand musketeer felt small and silly.

He cleared his throat again and tossed the towel on a chair nearby.

"I heard there is to be a storm tonight," he pronounced, matter-of-factly.

"What? Oh, yes. The storm," Marianne stammered out of her thoughts.

The musketeer headed decisively towards the windows. A strong wind gushed through as he opened the first one. Marianne hugged herself and went to look for a shawl. Porthos reached out of the window and felt for some wooden shutters that were placated against the wall. He had seen them from outside of the castle. _Classically medieval_, he scoffed to himself, _just like everything else in this eerie place._ He pulled them in and closed them, fastening the buckles tightly before closing the glass window pane and then drawing the heavy curtains. He would repeat the process for the other windows in the room.

"I _am_ happy you liked the wine," resumed Marianne, running her hand absent-mindedly on one of her bed posts.

"You must pack a few bottles with you," she blurted. "There may be nothing left after all…"

She felt the need to offer him something as she was suddenly conscious of a desire to make him happy. Partly to make up for her silence some moments ago that seemed to have offended him, judging by his now-distant attitude. She leaned back on the bed post, her arms clasped behind her back, observing him.

Her eyes half closed in a trance, she followed the light as it traveled along his moving figure. His chemise was half open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular and bulky forearms. She watched every muscle in his body contract and relax, all the way from his fingers, to his forearms, to his biceps, his shoulders, to his back and finally ending in his lower back, where Marianne's eyes continued to travel further south. Her head inclined slightly to the side and she licked her lips unconsciously.

She sighed aloud in approval.

Oblivious to her expression, Porthos mistook this sigh as one of discontentment. Clearly, the mention of the mission and its consequences disturbed her.

"You don't mind your house being destroyed?" he asked.

Marianne shook her head and looked down at her feet. "It never felt like a home, really."

He shot her a glance before returning to the last window.

"It felt more like home at your sister's. I wish I could live _there_."

She bit her lip, realizing she had said too much. It was practically a declaration! She blushed crimson and quickly turned away just as Porthos drew the last curtains and turned to face her. She pretended to be straightening out the sheets on the bed so as to avoid looking at him.

A huge smile illuminated the face of the musketeer. _She likes it!_ She liked being at Cecile's. She liked that life. _His _life. Maybe Athos and Aramis were right after all: Marianne didn't need extravagance. She could be content with less. She could be content with an ordinary life. And perhaps she could be content with an ordinary person. A person like him.

He picked up the poker and tended to the fire some more. Neither one of them said anything for a while. She stole glances at him over her shoulder, biting her lip often. She now had a full view of his rear, completely flexed while he squatted by the fireplace.

She struggled to maintain a steady breath. The physical attraction to him was too strong. She knew he felt the same way in that regard. She had felt the physical manifestation of his passion multiple times, albeit not to its fullest.

The thought made her blush. An hour ago, she had been sure he had loved her but she now found herself doubtful. Porthos _was_ a musketeer, after all. He was a man with grand appetites, especially when it came to women. What if she was just another dish to sample, nothing more?

A part of her didn't want to hope. She couldn't stand another heartbreak.

She froze upon hearing him rise and advance towards her.

He stopped a few feet behind her. Cautiously, she turned around. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing for a few seconds. He was kneeling on one knee, presenting her with an object wrapped in black velvet.

"This belongs to you," he said.

With trembling hands, she took it and unraveled it. The blade shimmered in the light. It was the dagger. The very one he had gifted her at the convention. The same one with which he…

He took her arm in his hand, and pushed up her sleeve, revealing a long fading scar, courtesy of the very same dagger. Courtesy of _him_. He lifted it to his lips, depositing tender kisses all along its length. Marianne shivered.

"_Pardonnez-moi… j'étais un salopard_. »

« It was an accident, » Marianne replied thickly, barely audible.

The young musketeer shook his head. He stroked her hand with his thumb.

"Ever since I met you, all I had wanted to do was to take you in my arms, to keep you safe, to guard you with my life… and all I ended up doing was hurt you instead… in more ways than one. I don't know what is the matter with me. Whenever I'm around you I become so… so… I don't even know. It's as if I'm not myself."

He stood up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was nervous.

"What I'm trying to say is…" he stammered.

Without so much as a thought, Marianne brought her hand to his cheek and caressed him gently. He leaned his face into her palm, reveling in the touch that he craved so much since he lost her.

"What I'm trying to say is…" he attempted again, his voice becoming thicker.

His breath accelerated as Marianne moved closer to him, narrowing the space between them.

It felt like time stopped. There was so much he had wanted to say, to atone for, to express, but he could only distill it to three words.

"…I love you."

…

**(18+ scene)**

He barely finished his phrase when their lips closed in on the last syllable. It wasn't long before their tongues found each other once again in a familiar sensual dance.

Marianne wrapped her hands tightly around his neck, pulling him as close to her as possible. He surrounded her waist with his arms, gluing her hips to his.

Unlike previous times when their kisses seemed wild or hurried, this was slower, more sensual, containing all the passion and tenderness between them.

Porthos proved to be a talented man indeed!Not that she had many men to compare it to but oh, he was talented! And to think that what he was doing with his tongue was currently exclusive to her lips, then what must it be like elsewhere?! That want and curiosity was came as a throaty moan. Marianne began to feel an urgent fire start between her legs, making her body soft and weak at the knees.

Porthos tightened his grip on her, forcing her succumbing body upright to continue taking advantage of her lips. Before long, Marianne's curiosity found satisfaction as the musketeer began exploring her neck with his tongue. He traveled up and down her neck, zeroing in on a sensitive spot behind her earlobes that drove her wild. She let out loud cries, stabilizing herself by gripping his hair to a painful point. He pulled her in tighter, almost crushing her and she instinctively began rubbing herself against him.

She didn't recognize herself anymore. All reserve and thought were shunned entirely from her mind. These physical sensations he brought her ignited her beyond the rational. Now, there was only a want, a need, a craving.

Porthos groaned as the movement of Marianne rubbed directly onto his crotch. His fingers fumbled clumsily at her skirt. Finally finding her thigh, they gripped it and hoisted it around his waist, giving them both more access to each other. This brusque movement tore a gasp from his companion, especially as she came to feel a hard object on her pelvis.

His hand glided in firm strokes up and down her thigh. Marianne tilted her head back, completely overcome by the sensations, her mind fantasizing about the possibilities yet to come.

"You're so… utterly… mmm…delectable…," he breathed into her skin, as he sampled another bite of her shoulder. While his kisses had started off gently, they had gradually become more insistent, more focused. He would test the waters to see how far she can handle his teeth sinking into her.

"More," she would whisper and he would oblige. Marianne was at her wits' end now, with her free hand, she was gripping the bedpost behind her tightly, her fingernails painfully digging into the wood.

If he continues like this… _oh god, oh god! Oh my…_

The air was suddenly punctuated with a loud giggle that startled them both. Porthos, who had just obtained access to Marianne's bottom and squeezed it, froze in confusion.

"I'm sorry!" Marianne cried in laughter. "It just… tickles!"

He breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't laughing at _him_.

"You mean, like this?" he touched his fingers on her bottom in the same movement, sending his partner into a laughing hysteria, her body convulsing reflexively to wriggle away from him.

"Stop it!" she cried laughing. Yet given the large mischievous grin on her partner's face, she knew he was going to tease her for a while.

Which he did, much to both of their amusement.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop, I promise!"

Marianne had given him a final and more serious plea, to which he responded by promptly disengaging. He wrapped his arms around her waist and they stared at each other, hyperventilating and recovering from the exercise. Marianne smiled up at him, dried tears streaking her red and puffy face from all the laughter.

He felt a tightening in his heart as he gazed at her, realizing for the first time in his life that it was possible to experience pain from so much tenderness. He now understood what d'Artagnan meant all those times when he said his heart was simply "bursting" for Constance.

Suddenly, Marianne narrowed her eyes at him.

"You're thinking I look like a tomato, _n'est-ce pas_?"

He wasn't expecting that comment. He rolled his head back with laughter.

"I wasn't, actually, believe it or not. But now that you mention it…" he pinched her cheek.

She pretended to be indignant by playfully punching his arm.

"You're very aggressive for your size, you know," he teased as he thwarted her attempts and sought to imprison her wrists in his.

"Well, when you're my size, you'll understand!" she retaliated. She attempted to wriggle out of his grip, to continue to playfully swat at him, to wrestle him. For a time, he wasn't sure what this meant until it dawned on him that this was her way to indicate to him that she wanted to resume their physical connection.

But…best to be sure.

He put a stop to her movements and held her in place. The determination in her eyes destabilized him. There was a fire in them that turned him on and intimidated him at the same time.

He leaned in and whispered. "Do you want me?"

Marianne nodded enthusiastically. Yet their subsequent kisses didn't last long before she gently withdrew, giving him her big sultry eyes once more and whispered: "Unlace me."

He let out a long and satisfied breath.

"Turn around," he ordered. She obeyed, despite her slight confusion. Her laces were in the front, why would he want her to…?

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as the answer to her question became clear. He wanted full access. To devour her with both his mouth and his eyes. From here, he could see bosom unhindered. He also had free reign to her neck and her shoulders.

Marianne also realized one thing she had neglected thus far: Porthos' right hand was still injured and bandaged all the way to his knuckles. Yet the musketeer had carried on with everything as if it was nothing. It was only now apparent that he will struggle since the laces required a rather dextrous approach. This was his way for asking her help.

Thus far, he kept his hands on her waist, as if waiting for her to initiate, to guide him. There was no insistence, no expectation, even though she had already declared her request. He was giving her the freedom to play things out on her own terms, to explore as she wanted, to experience what _she_ wanted and when she was ready. It was certainly never like this with Maxim and it was never like this in all the other stories she had heard about affairs between men and women.

A warm feeling coursed through her. She melted back further into his arms, and lifted her right arm to his neck, drawing him for a kiss that held all the love she could possibly express for him. For in that moment, she realized that she loved him irrevocably. She loved his gentleness as much as his roughness. She was in awe of the sheer physical power contained within him as much as she was in awe of his restraint. She adored his boisterous speech as much as his awkward silences. He was the first entity whose contradictions didn't bother her logically-oriented mind.

Taking his left hand in hers, she slowly mounted it up her chest, feeling his breath rise and fall more profoundly on her neck. Their fingers moved together on the bodice of her dress to undo the laces. With her free arm, she pushed the dress away off the edge of her shoulder in a slow and sensual manner, letting her fingers glide over her bare skin as she bit her lip and looked up him pleadingly. It was an invitation which he wholeheartedly accepted. He lowered his head and began to taste her flesh wherever the fabric fell away to reveal it.

When the dress finally landed onto the floor, he brought his hands to her chest and gently cupped her breasts through the corset. A quick glance at her face reassured him that she, too, was enjoying his touch, for her eyes were closed and she wore a satisfied smile on her face.

Her breasts felt so supple and plentiful in his hands. He attempted a little squeeze, which resulted in another giggle.

"It tickles?" he asked.

"No, it just feels… funny… to be touched like that," she admitted, blushing.

He adored her candidness. It took him off-guard, certainly but it was so terribly endearing, so unique to her. He couldn't remember any time when a woman he was with expressed anything out of the ordinary. Had they truly been satisfied with him? Could he possibly have done everything to perfection that they had no reason to complain? Or was it all just a show to please him? That was more of a possibility with the girls at Madame Morand's since they were paid. But even then, he was always confident and careful to ensure they had an equally pleasurable time. The truth was, he had never once interrupted his coital sessions to simply ask, "Are you enjoying this?". It was never even something that ever crossed his mind. It was casually assumed or implied, an understanding borne out of actions and sounds. Yet, was that really enough? Perhaps he wasn't really not as good as he thought he was, after all…

He came out of his reverie to be met by two cat-like eyes staring at him questioningly. He must have frozen for a minute or two as he contemplated this enormous epiphany, this assault to his very virility. And what was virility anyway? Was it measured by the number of women a man took to bed? By the shrill sounds he extracted from them as he made love to them? By the number of times he deposited his seed in a given night?

Good God in heaven, since when did Porthos stop to _reflect_ on things? And above all at such a critical moment! That was Athos' influence, surely. _Damn you, Athos!_

He was startled as he felt a hand on his cheek. He attempted a smile to subdue the concern that was clearly becoming dominant in her gaze. If the earth could only open up and swallow him now! What can she possibly think of him now? He was nothing but the shell of a man. A man who couldn't finish… who couldn't satisfy… his downward spiral was further exacerbated by the gradual loss of his erection, which further fed into the spiral, causing him to fully shut off.

"I- I'm so sorry," a little voice brought him back from the depths.

"For what?"

"I didn't mean to offend you when I said that," her voice began to take on a panicky tone.

He stroked her cheek. "It's not your fault, Marianne."

She took his hands in hers and kissed them. "I- I love how you touch me. I didn't mean to say it was funny. Only that… I feel comfortable. _You_ make me feel comfortable."

A smile illuminated his face. _That._ That right there was the definition of what it was to be a man. To be decent, to be loving, giving, to afford respect.

"That makes me glad," he said. _Because you make me feel like a real man._

Marianne decided to take advantage of his reticence. She brought herself up on tippy toes, placed her hand around his neck and brought him in for a kiss. She licked his lips voraciously as her tongue explored his mouth.

It was her turn now. This was her opportunity to initiate, to explore, to give back. He only caught a glimpse of a wry smile on her face before he was blinded by his own chemise as Marianne expertly and swiftly untucked it and slid it upward to remove it.

Her fingers moved dextrously on his chest. It wasn't long before they were joined by her warm lips. He moaned as he felt the tip of her tongue make its way to his nipples. She employed the same trick he had used on her: she went up and down and in concentric circles until she zeroed in on his nipples and gently bit them.

_Oh, she was sly!_ He sniggered to himself.

Marianne was hungry for him. To give reign to her desire. To touch his every muscle, to feel their tautness under her touch. She wanted to _know_ his skin, to revel in its warm emanations. The best part, however, was neither the touch nor the taste: it was his scent. Porthos has a distinct aroma of pine and rosemary, which - as she had come to observe - adopted a certain sweetness after he had been exercising. It was a scent that could melt her to her knees. She brought herself even closer to the surface of his skin, inhaling him like an incurable addict.

"I love the way you smell…" she whispered in between kisses. He let out a sound of pleased approval.

He wanted to tell her the feeling was mutual but stopped short when, to his grand surprise, Marianne dissolved to the floor on her knees, right in the middle of the puddle that was her dress.

"What're you..." he began.

She only answered him with a naughty smile as she began to guide her hands up and down his legs in a sensual movement. She squeezed on his calves. _Hard as a rock_, she thought to herself, giving him an appreciative glance. This gesture boosted his ego to no end.

He reveled in her exploration or, rather, her inspection of him. His chest instinctively puffed up, his legs parted slightly. From her angle, Porthos appeared as godlike as Zeus himself. Her gestures became more timid as she began to realize the extent of his raw physical force. There was only one thing left to discover: his very manhood.

A loud groan escaped him as her palm landed directly on his crotch. Her eyes widened with the discovery that it wasn't only his legs that were made of rock… spurred by her curiosity, she began to undo the laces of his culottes. Alas, only to be stopped untimely by the man himself.

He bent down, grabbed her by the arms and locked her in a savage kiss that left her weak and breathless.

He pushed his weight onto her and the fell onto the bed.

She had awoken the beast.

…

They made out frantically for some minutes, hands searching everywhere. Porthos was getting impatient now. He wanted more access, he wanted to rid her of the last pieces of fabric that covered her body: her corset and the jupon.

She indicated to him to proceed with the corset. Yet after some time and a few frustrated grunts, he disengaged from her and lowered himself onto her breasts to take a closer look.

He stared at Marianne incredulously.

"Who tied this knot?" he demanded with agitation.

Marianne raised her eyebrows, confused.

"Err… Aramis helped me with the corset before she left…"

Porthos passed his hands on his face and sighed loudly.

"By all the Gods, curse you, Aramis!"

He slammed his fist onto the bed.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" exclaimed Marianne.

"Why would you let Aramis tie your corset, hm? I thought you could do it yourself seeing as you don't have a maid or anything," he lashed accusingly.

Marianne gasped with indignation.

"Incredible," he went on in his rage. "Even when she's not here, she manages to interrupt my most intimate moments."

"All of this because of a… _knot_?!" Marianne stared at him with disbelief.

"Not just _any_ knot," he defended himself. Then, pointing his index finger at her chest, he adopted a dark look and gravely said: "Aramis ties the most secure unresolvable knots in all of France's military squads."

Marianne blinked at him a few times before she burst into laughter.

"So, you mean to tell me that for once, Porthos the Great can't undo the corset of a lady?" she teased.

"You think this is funny and you think that you will injure my pride but any real man would admit his defeat. So yes, that is precisely what I mean to tell you," he scowled.

"Aren't you adorable!" she pinched his cheeks and kissed it. He waved her away, shaking his head and pouting. He was fuming on the inside. Fuming with frustration, indignation and feeling utterly ridiculous.

"Luckily, I am a resourceful person," she beamed. She extended herself over him, strategically placing her bosom on his face, her hand fumbling around on the bed beside him. "There!" she declared. He was sorry to have lost contact once more.

"I've got a solution." With that, she produced the dagger he had given her, which she had thrown onto the bed earlier.

"Cut it," she ordered him.

She handed him the dagger and he found himself pointing it at her chest, just in between the breasts.

"Just… be careful," she blurted, placing her hand on his.

"Of course, of course," he kissed her to reassure and mumbled an apology for what happened the last time a dagger came between them.

Marianne shook her head, "Don't mention it now... We're together, that's what matters."

He placated his forehead to hers. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Hmm?"

"Never let Aramis help you get dressed ever again."

To which Marianne chuckled.

…

He went to place the dagger onto the vanity, as far away as possible so as to avoid any unpleasant accidents. When he came back, Marianne had removed her corset and jupon. She was propped up on her elbows, fully nude.

He could tell she was nervous by the twitch in her foot. Naturally. It was the first time she was naked with a man, let alone about to make love to him. He had been so excited to finally have her to himself he hadn't thought about the implications this moment had for her.

Her eyes were glued to him. She watched him move towards the bed, then lay down on his side next to her. She suddenly became acutely aware of every little sensation; every slight movement seemed to be amplified. What did he think of her? Was she pretty enough? Did she have the right body to seduce him? Or was she repulsive? Suddenly all the things she hated about her body stole the spotlight in her mind: the thickness of her thighs and arms, the flabbiness of her belly, her freckles and beauty marks. She never liked the way her breasts became flaccid when she was lying down. What will he think of those, now that he had seen them? Now that there was no corset to make them pop out?

He reached behind her neck and undid her hair. She shook her head to release it. He ran his fingers through her auburn locks, occasionally bringing them up to take a whiff of that sweet rose perfume that was so characteristic of her. He then spread her hair out around her shoulders, and took a stance to admire her. This beautiful forest nymph was his.

He began to kiss her again. This time, deep and long kisses. The kind of kisses whose purpose was clear about what was to come next.

Marianne didn't know what to do so she let him lead. She knew what will happen next but she didn't know just how and when. Was she supposed to do anything or would he just… take care of it? Would it hurt? Yes, she knew it would. But how much? What will happen after? Try as she might to remember her conversation with Aramis, it was futile. It was as though her mind was fogging.

Maybe she needed to open her legs first but hard as she tried to will them, they wouldn't part. In fact, they closed in tightly on each other. She was nervous. She wasn't ready.

Then her stomach twisted in on itself as memories intruded into her mind – memories of Maxim, of violence, of pain, and recently of Gerard and what he was about to commit. In an instant, all the feelings of excitement and desire she felt were replaced by those of shame and distress. She suddenly began to feel suffocated under the weight of the man she was with. The love she felt receded to fear and darkness and for a moment, he appeared a stranger to her – an aggressor. She trembled as the panic began to envelop her in its clutches.


End file.
